Grace was quite certain that she was not engaged now. James had followed her home in the curricle and then left without a word as soon as she was through the front door. Her mother had been waiting for her, tearful and anxious. All throughout dinner, she had been unable to stop exclaiming what a long walk Grace must have had, while Uncle Bernard teased Grace about her escort home. He had seen James through the window and got the wrong idea.

The next morning, Mr Redwood was as good as his word and called at eight o'clock, when Mrs Follet was barely dressed and Uncle Bernard barely awake. He took them both into the study and shut the door. The door remained shut for a long time. Even when breakfast was laid and ready, the door did not open. After breakfast, Grace, Emma, and Alice sat on the stairs, listening to the murmur of indecipherable voices from within.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Alice asked in a hushed whisper.

"Kent," Grace said. "I asked Mr Redwood for his help about Kent."

Emma gave a long sigh. "It's so nice to have a man on our side. Or men, I suppose, since you've got James."

Grace rubbed her throat, where a lump was forming. "I don't. We're not engaged."

Alice snorted. "How long are you going to keep him hanging, Grace? It's cruel."

"I'm not keeping him hanging. Last night he—" Her voice caught. "He made clear what he thinks of me."

Alice looked surprised and Emma looked pitying. Grace turned away from them both.

"Well," Emma said after a while. "I'm sorry."

There was nothing else to be said, not even from Alice. As the hall clock struck eleven, the study door opened and Mr Redwood came out, Mrs Follet and Uncle Bernard behind him. Uncle Bernard looked like he had eaten something very bad but still had to compliment his hostess on her meal. The vertical line was gone from between Mrs Follet's brows.

"You won't stay for breakfast, Mr Redwood?" she said. "I know it's late, but I'm sure Cook could fry some quick eggs."

"Thank you, but I'll be on my way. I've stayed longer than I intended." He saw the girls on the stairs and bowed to them. "Good day, Mrs Follet. Remember, my door is always open."

He hobbled out, leaning heavily on his stick.

Uncle Bernard cleared his throat. "I've got to get to the office," he said. "I think I'll stay in London tonight. Don't expect me back."

"Tomorrow then," Mrs Follet said.

"Or perhaps the day after." Uncle Bernard looked embarrassed. "I'm off then. Bye, Nell."

He left without even mentioning the breakfast he had missed, which was very unusual for Uncle Bernard. The girls came down the stairs and crowded expectantly around Mrs Follet. She smiled at them.

"Do you know, I'm hungry. Did you eat breakfast? Is there anything left?"

There wasn't, but Emma went to arrange for a plate and some coffee to be brought up while Alice and Grace questioned Mrs Follet.

"What is to happen about Kent?" Grace demanded.

"Oh, we're not going to Kent." Mrs Follet shook her head. "We're not to leave Richmond. Mr Redwood had quite a lot to say about that. We're to stay here and lease the house from Uncle Bernard at a very good rate until you are all married." Her two front teeth appeared in what might have been a grin. "It is in writing."

Grace was so relieved she had to sit down. "And Uncle Bernard won't live here?"

"Not at all. He is only to return to take his things away. Mr Redwood pointed out that it was not really fair to crowd us in our mourning. And he said that Aunt Mary could not be happy with her husband so absent."

"I bet she's happier than she's ever been," said Alice. "Well, it's her or us, and I'd rather it be her."

It was a mark of Mrs Follet's good mood that she made no attempt to reproach Alice. Grace did not remember her looking this happy very often when Mr Follet was alive. Even her dowdy black mourning could not dull the sparkle in her eyes or colour in her cheeks. Father wasn't very good for her, Grace realized. Alice and Emma had known all along and tried to protect her, but somehow Grace had been blind to it. Even James had known. He had said something about it, the night Mr Follet died. But Grace had dismissed it, too preoccupied with her own feelings about her father to care. But perhaps she, too, had not been good for her mother. Or good to her. There had been times when she had secretly agreed with Mr Follet's jocular criticisms of her.

Guiltily, Grace busied herself fetching a cup and saucer from the sideboard and pulling a chair out for Mrs Follet. Emma came back with the coffee pot, and Grace commandeered it from her to pour. Activity seemed more manageable than words. Perhaps Mrs Follet recognized the silent apology in it; she squeezed Grace's hand when Grace gave her the coffee.

"Cook's sending the rest up," Emma said. "Is everything going to be alright now?"

"It's going to be perfect," said Alice. "Uncle Bernard's going back to London and we're going to stay here until we're all married." Her eyes sparkled. "I'm never going to marry."

Emma's eyes went wide. "Mr Redwood must have been very persuasive."

"He used to be a barrister. I don't think Uncle Bernard had a chance." Mrs Follet sighed over her coffee. "Bless Mr Redwood. And bless you, Grace dear, for asking him. I never would have dared myself. I never would have even thought of it."

* * *

James left for Kent that morning, before Mr Redwood had returned from the Follets, choosing to leave without speaking to Grace. There was little, he thought, that he could say. Besides, he was tired of everything and everyone, and wanted to get away, even if that meant a three-day, rainy, uncomfortable journey to Kent.

The moment he saw the cottage, he knew it would not suit. It was low-roofed, dark, and damp, more farmhouse than cottage, sprawling between fields of salt-stunted fruit trees. He left and made his muddy journey home, arriving hungry and cold on Wednesday morning. He went straight to his room to change his clothes, not even stopping to say hello to his parents in the breakfast room. To his surprise, as he was halfway through changing his shirt, he heard the thump of his father's stick on the stairs and a moment later Mr Redwood entered the bedroom.

"The house in Kent is unsuitable," James said, pulling his shirt over his head. "Damp, dark, overpriced."

"Mrs Follet has decided against moving to Kent," Mr Redwood said. "She believes that it is in the best interests of her youngest daughters to remain in Richmond, and she will wait until she can find a suitable place here. Bernard Follet, in the meantime, has returned to London."

James wondered how long it had taken Mr Redwood to persuade Mrs Follet to it. But she was a persuadable woman. It would have been Uncle Bernard who had been the problem — but no match for Mr Redwood, certainly. He lazily decided against a coat and pulled on a dressing gown instead. "Then my journey was for nothing."

"It was." Mr Redwood did not look sympathetic. "Where are you going?"

James paused in the doorway, tying his dressing gown. "Breakfast. I'm hungry."

"It can wait."

There was steel in his father's voice. James recognized the warning sign and slowly shut the door. "What is it?"

"Mr Schiaparelli called yesterday. He came to return a deposit I sent him for Grace's necklace." Mr Redwood's eyes were cold. "He explained that you had refused to take it."

James had almost forgotten the necklace. "Yes. I decided the necklace was not appropriate."

"Why?"

"Because it wasn't from me. It didn't feel right."

"And the young lady with whom you left the shop had nothing to do with it?"

James had forgotten that. "Oh."

"But do go on," Mr Redwood said acerbically. "I am sure 'oh' does not begin to explain your actions."

"Nothing happened, Father."

"You went to the lady's home, did you not?"

"Yes, but I didn't do anything." James leaned wearily against the door, wishing only to end the conversation so he could go and eat breakfast. "It was a mistake for me to go with Martha, but I committed no indecency with her. I promise."

"You promise?" Mr Redwood looked at him through narrow eyes. "But does it even matter if you are innocent? You went with her. You were seen with her. What would Grace think if she knew?"

James's stomach jumped unpleasantly. "No. You can't tell her."

"The fact that you say that, James, proves that you know you have done her great wrong."

"Nothing happened! But if you tell Grace, you'll be needlessly hurting her. And proving nothing."

Mr Redwood prised himself out of his stoop to stand at his full height and looked down at James. There was a heavy, unpleasant set to his mouth. "Enough has been proven already."

"Proven? You don't believe me." James stared at his father. "You think I'm lying to you — have I ever told you a bald lie?"

"Yes, many times."

That was, unfortunately, true. James kicked his heel against the door frame. "Do you think me such a coward that I would deny what was true?"

Mr Redwood lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

James looked away, feeling lost and sick. He felt that he should apologize, that that was what his father wished for. But he was too hurt to apologize. He had not done what he was suspected of. And to apologize would be accepting guilt.

"Are you going to tell Grace?" he asked at last.

"I would not. To you alone I will confine my opprobrium. I had thought that a nice, sensible, quiet girl like Grace would bring out your better nature. Now I see, James, that all I have done in my meddling is force that girl to suffer the man I am ashamed to call my son."

By the fire in his father's eyes, James could tell that Mr Redwood wished for the words to hurt. He was too wounded already to feel them. To be disbelieved was more hurtful than any condemnation. He met his father's eyes without flinching.

"You were meddling," he said. "You are still meddling. And you're wrong. You were wrong in the beginning, and you're wrong now."

He yanked the door open and left the room, too upset to be hungry, too upset to care that he was still in his dressing-gown over an open shirt. His feet led him automatically down the stairs and past the open dining room door. His mother called out to him but it was only when he was through the front door that he registered it, and he realized he didn't care. It was drizzling outside, but even a downpour would not have halted him. As it was, he had to restrain himself from running out the front gate and down the road. He maintained a brisk stride, his dressing-gown flapping at his feet and mud splashing through his slippers. After a time, he became aware that he must look ridiculous and be making a spectacle of himself, but he was too angry to care.

It did not take him long to reach Grace's house. He went up the path and, after knocking at the door, tried it and let himself into the hall. The footman was just coming up the passage.

"I need to speak to Grace," James said.

"I will see if Miss Follet is at home."

There was no doubt she was there then, for the footman would have said if she were not. James ran up the stairs two at a time and went straight to the sitting-room. Grace was there, sitting at the window, a basket of mending by her side. She stood up, startled, when he burst in.

"What are you— why are you— you're not dressed," she said.

James shut the door behind him. "What does that matter? Aren't we engaged?"

"I... I don't think so. Why did you come?"

James ran his hands through his hair then rubbed his face. The ache and weariness of six days' hard riding sank over him all at once. He was hungry, too, and cold. And he was not sure, now, why he had come here — perhaps he had just been running away. This had seemed the only place to run to.

Something pushed against his backside and he opened his eyes. The footman was peeping through the crack in the door.

"He came up before I could stop him. Should I take him away, Miss Follet?"

"No. No, it's fine, Mark. Why don't you sit down, James?" Grace put her hand on his arm and pushed him towards a chair. "You're getting mud all over the carpet. Oh! You're not even wearing shoes!"

James slumped into the seat. "I know. I've two stones in one slipper and three in the other."

Grace gave him a prim, disapproving look then turned and left the room. She was not gone long. When she returned, she carried a pair of clean men's house slippers and a small towel. She dropped them in James's lap. He stared at the slippers. A.F. was embroidered on the toes.

"They were your father's?"

"He does not need them now."

"Is it alright for me to wear them? You won't mind? Your mother won't?"

"No one will mind. What on earth are you doing here? Why aren't you properly dressed?"

No other woman James knew would greet him like that if he turned up on her doorstep in a dressing gown. Except perhaps his mother. Only his mother's eyes wouldn't have had that shadow of worry to them and her tone would have been more angry than confused.

James peeled off his damp slippers and dried his feet. "I've just come back from my useless expedition to Kent. The house there was awful, by the way. If we're not engaged, you owe me for that. You owe enough to give me breakfast."

"You went to Kent. I thought you were avoiding me."

"I did. I was." James put aside the towel and, rather uneasily, pulled on Mr Follet's slippers. "Eggs and ham?"

"Coffee and bread." Grace pulled the bell cord. "Uninvited, unexpected guests can't ask more than that. You still haven't explained what you're doing here." Her gaze went to his open shirt collar then darted away. "In your dressing gown with no cravat or waistcoat."

James raised his hand to the collar of his dressing-gown to pull it closer then paused. There was the suggestion of a blush on Grace's cheeks, and it intrigued him. He dropped his hand. Anger and hurt still pounded in his belly, but the blush was a pleasant distraction from them. It belied the severity of her words. Mrs Booth, now, she would have been all useless sympathy and pale cheeks. This was much more interesting — and somehow more appealing.

James sat up straighter. "I come here wounded, Grace. I come here to seek the comfort of a sympathetic woman."

The corner of Grace's mouth tightened, like she was suppressing a smile. "I'm afraid my mother is occupied just now."

"She's not the one I'm seeking."

Grace's faint colour deepened. James waited to see what she would say — some sharp condemnation? Some half-flirtatious joke? — but she said nothing until a maid opened the door, and then she only ordered coffee and rolls with butter. When the maid left, Grace resumed her seat by the window and carefully folded her mending away. James waited in silence. Had they lost the moment? Had he misjudged it?

"You must have left home in a hurry," Grace said at last. "What happened, James?"

"I fought with my father. I had to get away."

She had a ball of half-ravelled wool in her hands and was slowly, rhythmically winding it. "I know that feeling. I normally wait to be dressed before I indulge it."

"All the greater my misfortune."

Grace dropped the ball of wool. It rolled slowly across the floor, unwinding as it went. James stooped and picked it up and began to rewind it, very careful to keep his eyes averted from Grace. He was beginning to flirt. He did not know where the urge came from. Grace had encouraged none of it, certainly. But there she was, neither sympathetic nor carping. Slight combative, perhaps, but not in an unkind way. It was vexingly provocative.

James tried to check the provocation by speaking rationally. "It was a pretty bad argument, actually. My father accused me of doing something I did not do, and would not believe me when I told him so. In my anger, I came here. God knows why. The last time we spoke, we argued. I've a habit of burning bridges, of late." He came to a snarl in the wool and tried to jiggle it out. "Will you let me mend one? I'm sorry."

Grace was silent. James risked raising his eyes to look at her. She was playing with another ball of wool, sinking her fingers into it and releasing them the way a cat kneads a cushion.

"Grace?"

"You said that I was not your friend," she said slowly. "Did you mean it?"

"Did I? I did, didn't I?" The snarl in the wool came loose and James finished winding it, tucking the loose end under. It would be easy to lie, to tell her that he had not meant it, that he had only been tired and speaking out of temper, but somehow James was in no mood for even half-lies. "I want to be friends with you, Grace. I've been trying, lately, but you've responded to my attempts with coldness and anger. Perhaps I started trying too late. Perhaps we can never be friends. That night, I said what I felt."

The colour deepened in her cheeks. "Then you meant it."

A silence took over the room. James had the feeling again that he had misjudged the moment. Misjudged Grace. He was forever misjudging her, it seemed. After all this time, he barely understood her at all. But he wanted to. He hesitated, then plunged forward.

"I would be happy to be proved wrong."

Grace stared at her mending basket as though she had never seen it before in her life and could not comprehend its purpose. James suppressed the urge to speak further and press his point. Even if he could persuade her to be friends — or more — against a native reluctance, he did not want to. That wasn't true friendship. She had to want it too.

Several long moments passed in silence. At last, Grace pushed her mending basket aside and slid off the seat. She stood over him, her brow furrowed, considering. Then, slowly, she held out her hand.

"Friends?" James asked.

"Trying."

James took her hand in his and, instead of shaking it, gently kissed it. "Thank you."

The colour lit in her cheeks again, warm and uncertain. There was a quivering about the lips, a brightness of the eyes. Don't flirt with her, James warned himself. It's not what it means. She's just shy. But his limbs seemed to have a life of their own as he stood, still holding her hand, and looked into her eyes. They were close enough that she might have pulled away.

"So we're trying to be friends," he said. "But are we engaged?"

She bit her lip. "We're— no. No, we're not."

"That settles that." He still did not drop her hand. Instead, he stepped closer, until he could feel the warmth radiating off her body. "My trouble is that I've always liked women more when I'm not married to them."

"When you can't have them." There was challenge in her tone, but it was belied by the trembling of her lips.

"Exactly." He watched her carefully, seeking any sign of an invitation. "I never had a chance with you."

She tilted her face towards him, her eyes half-lidded, but the challenge still in them. "Never."

He meant the kiss to be innocent, chaste, even, but her lips parted at his touch and her hands found their way, somehow, to the back of his neck. And there was hunger behind it, too, loneliness, and sorrow, and hope. On both sides. He had wanted to do this more than he had known, and from the way her body melted at his touch, so had she.

Some indefinite time later, James distantly registered the sound of a door opening and a gasp. Then he understood the sound and pulled urgently away from Grace, opening his eyes. A maid stood in the doorway, carrying a tray of bread rolls and coffee, openly gawking at them.

"I forgot I ordered coffee," Grace said faintly. "Put— put it down on the table, Eloise."

With a sideways glance at James, the maid came forward and set the tray down on the table. She backed out of the room without a word and shut the door behind her. Grace stared at the door, then looked at James.

"She will tell Mother."

"And Mrs Follet will be scandalized?" James stroked Grace's cheek. "It was only a kiss."

"No. It wasn't."

James's heart fluttered in a peculiar, not unpleasant, fashion. "You're right," he said. "It wasn't."

He bent his head and kissed her again. Too soon, they were interrupted again by a hasty knock at the door.

"Grace?" Mrs Follet called. "Grace, are you in there?"

Grace pulled back from James. "We might be engaged," she said in a soft, uncertain voice.

"Might?"

Grace shook her head. "I'm not sure—"

Mrs Follet knocked again. "Grace?"

"Yes, Mother." Grace smoothed down her dress. "We're in here." She glanced at James. "I'm not sure we will marry, but for now—"

The door opened, and the rest of the sentence went unspoken.

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A/N 2022-04-11: Grace! Make up your mind! Commit!