James left Grace's house feeling thoughtful and just a little hurt. He had known that there had been some history with Benson, something beyond the ordinary sort of history that might be expected of an ex-lover. He had not suspected the truth would be so plain and simple: Benson had been a fortune-hunter, Mr Follet had seen through him, and Grace had been so hurt by the discovery that even now she had not recovered, even now, she hoped to believe the best in Benson.

James was not so kind: while walking Benson down the stairs and out the front door, he had had a terse, quiet conversation with him. Opera singers had been mentioned. As had locks on balconies, unwritten laws of gentlemanly conduct, and, quite casually and half-truthfully, the number of hours James spent each week at the boxing club. Benson had been smiling and opaque: Mr Redwood must be misremembering, Mr Redwood must have quite mistaken the matter, Mr Redwood surely could not think so of a humble country vicar. Every denial he had uttered had made James only more certain that he was a liar. Now that James knew his true history with Grace, he wished he had given in to temptation and kicked Benson down the front steps instead of only warning him off.

He was so angry with Benson that it almost took the sting away from the hurt he felt at Grace's behaviour. It was one thing for her to scorn him for days on end — that he well understood — but he could not like that she had held his hand so obviously only to prove something to Benson. Yes, he had played along, but only for the sake of her pride. Feigned affection made him uncomfortable. He had rather be honestly disliked by a woman than be subject to false, soft touches. And he had not suspected Grace to be capable of such deception.

At dinner that night, he told his parents that Grace had, at last, deigned to see him.

"She must be feeling a little better then," Mr Redwood said. "Did she look well?"

"She looked thin and angry. And she told me that she will not marry me."

"Then you must change her mind," said Mrs Redwood.

"It is not that easy, Mother."

"Have you tried giving her flowers?" Mr Redwood asked.

"No, I have not."

"I don't see the point in flowers," Mrs Redwood said. "They'll be dead in a week. He needs to give her something real, preferably something expensive."

"I doubt I can buy her affection — and if I could, I would not want it."

"It is not to buy her affection," Mr Redwood said. "It is to prove your affection for her."

"I think there is better proof," James said.

"And what would that proof be?" Mr Redwood raised an eyebrow. "James?"

He trailed his fork through his carrots and gravy. He cared for Grace. He was sorry for her. He suspected she knew that already. He suspected she did not care.

"James?"

"I just don't think giving her presents is going to improve the situation."

"You won't know unless you try it," Mrs Redwood said. "Personally, I think something practical would be best, like very nice soap."

James shuddered. "I give you soap for Christmas every second year."

"And it is a very good present."

"But what one gives one's mother as a matter of course is hardly likely to persuade a woman to romance," Mr Redwood said. "I should as soon recommend James give her a tobacco pouch."

"That would be very silly," Mrs Redwood said. "But if you must have it your way, how about a neat little work box?"

"Grace already has one," James objected. "And she does not find embroidery amusing."

"But it can be very practical."

"I believe the object for a present is to be impractical and enjoyable," Mr Redwood said. "Which is why I suggested flowers."

"Very well," James said. "I'll pluck her a bunch of nettles from the hedgerow."

He did, in fact, find some pretty spear thistles blooming by the roadside on his walk to Grace's house the next day, and he plucked them for her. Once again, however, she refused to see him, and as he walked home he flung them back into the ditch from which he had plucked them.

Two weeks passed, and Grace remained as stubbornly unapproachable as ever. Some days, she deigned to speak to James, to inform him that she would not marry him no matter how many times he came grovelling, or to rant about her Uncle Bernard who had still not left the Follet's house even though it meant travelling for an hour to get to his office in the Temple every day. Most days, she refused to see him at all. One of those days, James was surprised, upon returning home, to find his father waiting at the front door with a horse saddled and ready for him.

"I want you to go to London for me, and collect something I have purchased from Schiaparelli's."

Schiaparelli was a well-known jeweller. James looked suspiciously at his father. "What is this something?"

"A dog collar."

"I don't think you've got the neck for it. Too scraggy."

"It is for Grace."

"Mother will be jealous."

"Mother approved." Mr Redwood raised his cane and tapped James gently on the chest. "We have tried it your way and it has not worked. Let's try it mine."

James kicked his heel on the step. "I really don't think it's a good idea."

"I have paid for it and arranged everything already. All you need to do is to collect the necklace and bring it home. And if it doesn't work, and she rejects it, you will have lost nothing and I will have lost forty pounds."

"Forty pounds? Father, that's beyond extravagant!"

"I have saved a great deal from cutting your allowance," Mr Redwood pointed out. "Besides, it will be worth it if Grace forgives you."

"I don't want a woman to forgive me for forty pounds," James grumbled. "It puts an ugly taste in my mouth."

"Then you are free to hope she does not." Mr Redwood passed the horse's reins to James. "But you will go and collect the necklace regardless. I would go myself, but my rheumatism has been very bad of late."

At least it was an excuse to go to London. James was beginning to feel hemmed in at home. He looked down at his fawn trousers. "Just let me change into riding clothes first."

Halfway to London, it began to rain. James reached the jewellery shop on Bond Street bedraggled and wet. When he introduced himself to a clerk, Mr Schiaparelli himself went to get the order and showed it to James.

It was no mere dog collar. It was a delicate band of whorling gold shaped like vines and set at intervals with little pale yellow stones in the shape of flowers.

"Please tell me those aren't diamonds," James begged.

"Citrine, sir," Mr Schiaparelli said reproachfully.

That did not sound as expensive as diamonds, even if it looked it.

"Is the necklace satisfactory?" Mr Schiaparelli asked.

"Oh it's quite beautiful," James said, disgusted. Too beautiful really — and he did not think it suited Grace. She had simpler taste. There was a four-stranded collar of red coral in the display case that would look rather sweet on her. But James had no money for such a present, and, even if he did, he would not have bought it for the purpose of gaining Grace's affection. Affection bought was not affection at all.

Mr Schiaparelli carefully arranged the necklace in a velvet box, then wrapped that in brown paper. The whole arrangement took a great deal of time, and much more paper and string than James had imagined. He leaned against the counter, eyeing the red coral necklace and wondering if Grace would have liked it. The bell rang as another customer entered the shop.

"—a moment!" she called to someone outside. "Now, that charming— why, James!"

James started and turned around. The voice had not been instantly recognizable to him, but the pretty, round-cheeked face it belonged to was: Martha Bertram, an old lover of his, on-and-off, whenever she grew bored of her husband. She came close and presented her gloved hand for him to kiss. He bent politely over it, aware of Mr Schiaparelli watching them.

"I haven't seen you in simply forever," she said. "I hear that you're engaged."

"I am."

"Congratulations." She laughed. "Caught at last."

"In a matter of speaking." James was aware of Mr Schiaparelli's unnerving eye still upon them. "I say, is that parcel finished yet?"

"Of course, sir." Mr Schiaparelli gave him the parcel with a slight bow. "That necklace seems to have caught your eye. Would you like to see it more closely?"

"No, I would not," James said firmly. "Thank you." He went to the door, nodding at Martha. "Good day, Mrs Bertram."

"But wait!" Martha trotted after him as he left the shop, pausing in the doorway out of the rain. "Now, really, James. I want to know all about your engagement."

"There isn't much to know." James struggled to squeeze the parcel into his breast pocket. It was too wide. He stuffed it inside his waistcoat instead and took up his horse's reins from the lamppost he had tied them to. "Good day, Mrs Bertram."

"Is that for her?" Martha asked, immune, as always, to a snub. "You never bought me anything. Oh, come home with me and tell me all about her. You can rest your horse in my stables. It's dreadful weather for riding. And I want to know about your engagement."

There was nothing in her voice but friendship, and it was raining rather hard. James closed his ears to the quiet voice inside his head that told him this was a bad idea. He needed company. Company that wasn't Grace, or her miserable sisters and mother, or his parents. He needed a friendly ear.

"Very well then. I'll follow along behind your carriage."

When they arrived at the Bertrams' house and settled down in the drawing room with tea and cakes, James found that Mr Bertram was out. He had gone to Bath until Christmas, Martha complained.

"Leaving me alone with the baby," she said bitterly, "and taking Eddie and Charlotte with him to visit his mother."

Eddie and Charlotte were Martha's two eldest children, of ten and twelve respectively.

"You've another baby," James said. "Then you deserve congratulations too."

Martha gave a rather wobbly smile. "I only came out of confinement last week. It was very difficult this time. I was so sick with the baby all through spring that I couldn't enjoy the season at all. Then I was confined early — I was quite unwell. I've hardly spoken to a single soul since August who doesn't say 'ga-ga' or 'yes, ma'am'. Which makes it so cruel of Bertram to go and visit his mother and take the children with him. He might at least have left me Charlotte. I went shopping just to speak to someone human. I'm so glad I found you."

"I don't know what good I'll be," James said. "I'm in a foul mood too, truth be told."

"Really?" Martha sat forward on the couch, perking up. That was one thing James liked about her. After a violent discontent, she was always immediately prepared to be cheerful again. "Do tell."

Somehow, James found himself telling her the story of his engagement from the beginning — how he had been set upon by some unknown ruffians and beaten, how his parents had seen fit to engage him to Grace, who did not suit him at all, how after a month of stifling courtship her father had died, leaving Grace grieving and angry with him, and how his father had arranged for the ridiculous necklace to buy her affection back.

"My goodness," Martha said. "That's such a sad tale, darling."

"It's unfortunate," James said, a little unsettled by the casual darling.

"But, no, really, to be set upon like that by ruffians — who hired them?"

James shrugged. "It has long ceased to matter. No one has claimed responsibility. It's not surprising. Having attacked me in such a cowardly manner, they would not."

"But you might have been killed!" Martha placed a hand over her heart. "The thought of it!"

"I was not," James said.

"Still!" Martha sighed deeply. "And that poor woman — I do pity her, but she doesn't have to take it out on you."

"She has reason enough to be angry with me. I wasn't good to her." James felt suddenly embarrassed. He had not told Martha about his efforts to rid himself of Grace. He was too disgusted with himself to speak of it, even though Martha, always ready with sympathy, would be unlikely to condemn him for it.

"You really don't like her?" Martha said musingly. "You ought to break the engagement then — I know men are supposed to be honour-bound not to, but, James, really, you're not the kind of man who could suffer an unhappy marriage. I mean, Bertram and I, we get along well enough at intervals and ignore each other the rest of the time, but you're not like that. You're so romantic you can't abide the idea."

"I'm not romantic!"

"You most certainly are. I remember the time you gave me a rose carved from ice so that it would melt and Bertram would never know — and that was in summer! I never knew how you managed it."

"I bought a block of ice from an ice man and had my cook carve it."

"It was still very romantic. You can't marry her."

There was something vaguely irritating about told he couldn't marry Grace, something almost more irritating than being told he must. James shrugged.

Martha leaned back on the couch and regarded him from under her lashes. "James," she said. "You're frowning, and I don't like it when you frown."

"I beg your pardon then."

"Why don't you come to bed with me, like the old times, and forget about Miss Follet for a while?"

The quiet voice of doubt that James had earlier ignored now said, very loudly, I told you so. James stared at Martha. For a heartbeat, he was disgusted by her, by her guileless blue eyes and the frothy white lace of her dress about her plump, eager body. The blood pounded in his head and he felt sick. It wasn't her. It was him. He knew exactly who she was and what she wanted from him, and he had come here anyway.

"My god," he said. "What am I doing here?"

"James?"

He stumbled to his feet and almost ran to the door. "I can't do that to Grace. I should not be here. I should never have come."

"She'll never know," Martha said.

"I'll know." James took a deep breath. "Dear, dear Martha, once upon a time, I loved you. Or something close enough to it, for the both of us. But things have changed and I... I just can't do that to Grace. Or to me."

Martha bit her bottom lip, perplexed. "Well if that's how it is," she said indifferently. "I wish you happy, James. I wish both you and Miss Follet as happy as you can be."

James couldn't tell if she meant it or not. He bowed and left the house. He was halfway to Richmond before his head cleared enough to remember the necklace, bumping against his chest. He turned around and headed back towards the jewellery shop. Mr Schiaparelli looked at him in surprise when he entered.

"I want to return this," James said, dropping the necklace on the counter.

"But your father ordered it specifically."

"I want to return it," James said firmly.

"Why, sir?"

"It doesn't suit."

The old man slit open the carefully wrapped paper and took the necklace from the box. He examined it very carefully in the light. "It looks in order," he said reluctantly. "But your father is the man I do business with. You are just the courier, as far as I am concerned."

"It is a present for my future wife," James said. "And I tell you, it does not suit. I do not want it. I will not give it to her. I am not taking it."

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A/N 2020-01-06: Wait, it's 2022 already? Did I start this one in 2021 or 2020? It feels like I've been writing it forever. Anyway, I'm going to finish it this year, quite definite. Hopefully soon.