Grace made no effort to sleep that night. She paced her room like a caged animal, sometimes stopping by the window to stare out over the darkness of the street, sometimes throwing herself facedown upon her bed, before restlessness overtook her once more and she found herself compelled to move.

In the early hours of the morning, she began to feel hungry. She left her room and crept downstairs, hoping to find some of the funeral supper to finish off. To her surprise, a light still glowed from Mr Follet's — no, Uncle Bernard's study now. She crept closer and heard her mother's low, anxious voice. Of course, she and Emma would have stayed up late talking about the funeral. For once, Grace wanted to be a part of those mother-daughter confidences. She opened the door then stopped short. Emma was not there. It was Uncle Bernard who sat with her mother by the fireplace. Mrs Follet broke off mid-sentence and they both turned to her.

"Why, Grace dear," Bernard said. "Are you feeling better now?"

"What are you still doing here?"

"Your mother and I had matters of business to discuss." Bernard took out his pocket watch. "My! Past two already! How we have nattered on."

Mrs Follet rose to her feet. "I didn't realize it was so late! You can't possibly drive home at this hour — besides, I think it is raining."

Grace went to the curtains and pulled them back. Raindrops glistened on the other side of the window-glass but she could hear no patter of rain. "It has been raining," she said, "but it has stopped now."

"But with the clouds there will be no light, and the roads will be dangerous." Mrs Follet furrowed her brow in Bernard's direction. "I did not think to have the spare bedroom made up this morning. Give me but a minute and I will do it now."

"No need," Bernard said. "Archie's room will do me. We shared a bed often enough as children."

Mrs Follet's mouth dropped open. "Oh. Oh, if that is what you wish."

"I'll be off to bed then." Bernard yawned. "We can continue this discussion in the morning. There's no hurry. Goodnight, Nelly. Goodnight, Grace."

He prised himself out of the armchair and lumbered to the door. He had none of Mr Follet's height or thinness. Too many rich dinners had left a permanent flushed cast to his cheeks. And despite that, Grace thought bitterly, it was not Uncle Bernard who died first.

When he had left the room, Mrs Follet gave Grace a pitying look. "He doesn't mean to hurt."

"He didn't have to stay the night. Couldn't he have left us alone for a few days at least, gone back to London? Does he have to take everything from us?"

"Grace dear." Mrs Follet came closer and tentatively touched Grace's shoulder. "He is only trying to help. And he has assured me that we are welcome to stay on here as long as we need, until we can find a new place to live."

"Did he? Has he put it in writing?"

Mrs Follet rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Sometimes you are very like your father, dear."

"I wish people would stop comparing me to you and father!" she exploded. "Just tell me, has he put it in writing?"

"No, he has not. But, really, what need? He is your uncle, Grace. You need not mistrust him."

Grace moved away from her mother and went to the dying fire. "What will we do after we leave this house?"

"We will rent somewhere. Uncle Bernard has promised to help us find a place."

"Somewhere small and pokey no doubt, on what Father has left us!"

"He has left us comfortable," Mrs Follet said mildly. "Besides, Grace, you will marry James soon enough and be in London with him."

Grace felt sick at the thought. James alone knew that she had not loved her father — she could not have, or she would feel sad now, and she didn't, she was only very surprised that he was dead and very angry that he had left most of his earthly spoils to Uncle Bernard. She could not bear the thought of living with a man, being intimate with a man, who knew such an ugly thing about her. And besides, she had only agreed to marry him to get away from her father. Well, she was away from him now. She didn't need James.

"Grace? What's wrong?"

"I'm not sure I will marry him." Grace shivered. "I'm not sure I want to now."

Mrs Follet looked surprised. "I thought... I do think that he cares for you, dearest. Not that I wish to persuade you against your heart, of course, but I do think... well, sometimes he looks at you."

"It would be surprising if he never did."

"No, of course. But it's the way he looks at you. Even before you went to Ellen's, I think, he was... but then, I'm not good at noticing these things, am I? I might be imagining it. And I saw him hold you when you were crying, which made me think things had progressed, but then, when someone is crying, it's natural to hold them, isn't it? Or even if he did mean something by it, that doesn't mean you do. I only want you to be happy, dear, and if he does not make you happy then I wouldn't want you to marry him, but... but I did wonder if... well, anyway, I might be very wrong about it. I am not sure I ever understood you as well as I should have." Mrs Follet blinked away a sudden brightness in her eyes. "But I really do think you should not make a decision so quickly. It's all been a terrible shock. Give yourself a little time to be quite sure, won't you?"

Grace poked the dying fire, but the coals were too far gone to do more than fizzle. It was useless, attempting to confide in her mother. Mrs Follet only dithered about with maybes and perhapses, and Grace was quite certain she could not bear to marry James. Not now. Not ever.

"I wasn't asking your permission to break the engagement, Mother. I was informing you that I am."

Mrs Follet looked hurt, which only served to anger Grace more. "I'm just saying, dear, that you should give yourself time. You are grieving. Besides, there is no hurry to end the engagement. You are in mourning. The wedding must be put off until spring at least. What harm in waiting? You might feel very differently in six months."

"I have made up my mind. You will not convince me otherwise. No one will."

"I didn't mean to try. I just meant..." She sighed heavily. "Never mind. I should not have spoken. You always were strong-minded. I sometimes wished... but it takes all types to make a world."

"You sometimes wished I were meek and wilting?"

"No. I sometimes wished I were more like you."

Again, guilt lent fire to Grace's anger, but she bit it down. "I'm sorry," she said gruffly. "I don't think I'm good company tonight."

"I think we should both go to bed." Mrs Follet gave Grace a hesitant, one-armed hug and kissed her cheek. "Rest will do us both good."

She left the room, but Grace stayed behind until the fire died out completely and she was left in darkness. She would have to tell James — but she dreaded the thought of seeing him again.

* * *

James was not a man easily given to regret. He did not deny that he had made mistakes in life, but he did believe that mistakes, once made, were best forgiven and forgotten, particularly when he was the one to have made them.

It was a novel sensation to him now to find his conscience pressed. He should never have agreed to marry Grace if he did not intend to see the engagement through. It was dishonest of him, deceitful, and he had achieved nothing but to hurt her. After a night of sleepless self-recrimination, he came to the conclusion that the best he could do by her now was support her in her grief and try to make up the harm that he had done her in whatever way he could.

The day after the funeral, he went to her house to begin his quest. When he entered, the butler informed him that Miss Follet was in her room and if Mr Redwood would wait in the drawing room, he would send for her. In the drawing room, Bernard Follet sat alone by the fire reading a newspaper which he cheerfully abandoned to tell James how accomodating and pleasant poor Mrs Follet and the girls were being despite — his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper — the tragedy that had visited them. James agreed that it was very unfortunate indeed. Unfortunate, declared Bernard, did not begin to describe it. He proceeded to describe it himself, with mournful magniloquence. James checked the clock impatiently. At last, Grace entered, interrupting Bernard mid-platitude.

James halfway crossed the room towards her, stopping when he saw her draw back. "Grace. I hoped I could keep you company today."

"You understand that we are a house in mourning, Mr Redwood," she said, not meeting his eyes. "We cannot be expected to entertain you."

Bernard shook his head sadly. "You must forgive Grace. She is at the mercy of her emotions, poor child, and they are quite merciless, I am afraid."

James ignored Bernard. "I'm not here to be entertained, Grace. I'm here in case you need anything."

"There is nothing I need of you." Her bottom lip trembled and she bit it hard. "It would be easier if you were not here right now. I'll speak to you tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after."

"Grace would rather be alone," Bernard said. "She has been in her room all morning. I invited her  to play whist with me and her sisters, but as she refused we had to play dummy. It is much better to let her be, Redwood."

Grace flicked her uncle a snake-like glare but remained mute.

"Your mother was with you?" James asked.

"No, Nell was with the vicar's wife," Bernard said. "The parish is really coming together in aid of our little family. We've received so many baskets of provisions from friends — the most delectable apricot jam this morning."

Again, Grace's eyes flicked to her uncle, and again she said nothing.

"Where are Emma and Alice?" James asked. "Where is Mrs Follet now?"

"They are all at the vicarage," Bernard said. "There was the matter of..." He waggled his fat fingers in the air. "...bombazine? Bonnets? Bombazine bonnets, perhaps?"

Then Grace was entirely alone, except for her boorish uncle and the servants. James could not leave her. Yet, she stood still and silent by the open door, patently wishing he would go. He sighed inwardly.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Grace?" he asked. "Or chocolate?"

"I'd love a cup of chocolate," Bernard said. "Why don't you ring for it, Gracie?"

Mutiny flickered behind her eyes, but she went to the bell-cord and rang for the servants.

"Are you going to have anything?" James asked.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

It seemed a waste to make chocolate just for Bernard but James said nothing. They remained standing in silence until a servant entered and Grace gave the order. The servant departed without Grace having asked James if he wanted anything. He knew it to be a deliberate oversight. He came close to her and spoke low in her ear, "If you tell me to go, I will go, but otherwise I am staying with you until your mother and sisters return."

She turned away from him, almost flinching, and James knew he was about to be dismissed. Before she could speak, Bernard chortled, "What are you whispering about? Young love — how very sweet!" and Grace's eyes bulged with sudden fury.

"I want to go for a walk," she said.

James looked out the window. "It's raining."

"We will take an umbrella."

James thought it best not to argue with her. He went to find an umbrella while she went upstairs to get her cloak. The moment they left the house, she exploded, "I hate that man!"

"He's a fat old oaf," James said placatingly, pulling her closer to him so the umbrella covered them both. "Where are we walking?"

"I don't know." She pushed him away. "Why are you walking so close?"

"Because it's raining and we have only one umbrella."

The resistance in Grace's arm, linked through his, softened. "I had to leave the house."

"I know."

"Everything he says makes me want to scream."

"You can scream if you like, but I can see curtains twitching, so you will definitely be heard."

Grace made a sound half-laughter and half-sob. James wondered if she had slept. She looked very pale, paler still for the black mourning gown she wore.

"We could go to my house," he said. "We don't have to talk. You could rest, sleep even."

"I don't want to." Grace stopped as they reached the crossroads. One road led towards Kew Gardens, the other towards the shops and church. "This way." Her pace quickened. "Uncle Bernard is acting as though he owns the house. Sleeping in Father's bed, ordering about the servants, eating our jam."

"He does own the house, Grace."

"He doesn't need to move in immediately!"

"I know. He's a blundering ass." James was relieved she was unbending towards him, even if it was only because she was angrier with someone else. "Do you know where you and your family will go? How long will he let you stay there?"

"Let!" Grace laughed bitterly. "He says he will not send us away, but it is clear he wants our home for himself — as though he doesn't have a perfectly good place in Chancery!"

"He will quit the law?"

"I don't know. I haven't asked." She stomped on through the rain, sending spatters of mud over James's boots. "I don't care. It doesn't matter. Why don't you work?"

The abruptness of the question surprised James. "I read law at Cambridge."

"I know. Why don't you work at it? Don't you get bored with nothing but gallivanting to occupy your time?"

James had been asked that question before by other women, but never in a tone of such belligerence. "Less bored gallivanting than I was reading law. Don't you get bored with embroidery?"

"Yes." She scowled. "It's alright when there's some purpose in it, when I'm mending stockings or something, but embroidering little flowers on bits of muslin for no purpose other than to prove that I can — it's like Penelope sewing at her carpet only to undo it every night."

"There was purpose in that."

Grace shot him a dirty look. "You know what I mean."

"I would never dare assume." James took the risk of baiting her. If she was not in the mood to be comforted, having a target for her anger might give her some relief.

Her cheeks coloured faintly, but she gave no reply. Then, abruptly, she stopped. James stopped with her. They were at the gate which led to the church graveyard. Slowly, Grace unlatched the gate and pushed it open. James followed her in. She walked down the rows of gravestones until she came to her family's plot. The earth lay in a dark rectangle where Mr Follet had been buried.

"There's no stone."

"The earth has to settle, Grace."

"How long does it take?"

"I'm not sure. A long time, I think."

She stared at the black earth as though she was thinking of digging it up again. James touched her hand and, when she did not shrink away, clasped her fingers lightly in his own. For a few moments, they stayed like that, then she slowly, deliberately pulled her hand away. The patter of the rain almost drowned out her next words:

"I don't want to marry you."

James stared at her, but she looked resolutely at her father's grave. Had he misheard? "I beg your pardon?"

"I don't want to marry you."

She meant it. He raised his face skywards and let out a long, deep breath. It was over. He was free. He could return to his old life, to independence in London, to the knowing smiles of safely married women and dalliances that began with the ending already determined. Relief swept over him; it was with great difficulty he restrained himself from laughing.

He lowered his gaze and met Grace's sad, anxious eyes. The impulse to laugh died.

"I'm so sorry," she said.

"Don't apologize. You've done nothing wrong."

She nodded but looked no less anxious. A gust of wind sent a shower of needling rain under the umbrella. James looked up. The sky was black with racing clouds and the rain was growing steadily heavier around them.

"You picked a wonderful day for a walk," James said, shivering. "Let's take shelter in the church until the storm passes over."

At this time of day, the church was empty and distinctly gloomy. Muddy light filtered in through the stained glass windows and a chill dampness hung in the air. Their footsteps echoed as they made their way to a pew and sat down.

"I could walk home," Grace said after a while. "I don't mind getting a little damp."

"I mind."

"You don't have to walk with me."

"I mind you getting damp," James said. "Drenched, rather. Half-drowned."

"You don't need to worry about me anymore. We're no longer engaged."

"Just be patient, Grace. The storm will blow over soon."

James leaned on the back of the pew in front of him and stared into the vague shadow of the altar. Next to him, the umbrella dripped steadily, faintly onto the floor. His wool coat smelled like wet dog. Above that, rose the scent of something citrusy and floral — Grace's soap. Sassafras, perhaps, or bergamot? Unusual. Young women usually smelled of roses or lavender. It suited Grace, somehow. She had hidden spice.

"Why don't you want to marry me?" he asked.

"We don't suit."

"We never did. You never minded until today."

The pew creaked as she shifted in her seat. "I did mind. I just didn't say."

For a long time, there was silence but for the dripping of the umbrella and the dull roar of the rain outside.

"You're so rude sometimes," Grace said abruptly. "Obnoxious. Insulting. Embarrassing. Vain."

James winced. "Do go on."

"I know you sometimes say things just to offend me. Particularly when we're in company." Her voice trembled. "It's cruel. And it's stupid."

It was. Despite the chill in the air, James's cheeks were warm.

"And when it comes down to it, I'm not in love with you. I don't even like you. And I suspect you don't like me. So why should we marry? It's nothing other than a financial arrangement my father made. Now he's dead... there's no reason for it to stand."

Except for the three thousand pounds Grace ought to have had as a dowry.

"The trouble is, Grace—"

"Now that we're no longer engaged," she interrupted, "you can start calling me Miss Follet again."

"The trouble is, Miss Follet..." James stopped. His heart was pounding and his cheeks were hot. He was getting what he wanted. It had been easy in the end. Why should he feel guilty for it? It was what Grace wanted too. She had said as much.

And just yesterday had been her father's funeral. And she had not slept. And she would not cry. And she was full of pain she was trying not to let anyone see.

He would be taking advantage of her if he took her at her word now.

"The trouble is, Grace, I do like you."

She stiffened. "It's Miss Follet."

"No. It's Grace. I like you far too much, you see, to break our engagement so easily. Your father just died. You're grieving. You're in no state of mind to make such a decision, so I cannot accept it."

"What?" Her tone was steely. "Do you think I'm deranged? I know what I want, Ja— Mr Redwood. I know how I feel. You have absolutely no right to tell me otherwise. The— the arrogance of it. Of all the... condescending, supercilious... arrogant nerve!" She jumped to her feet and snatched the umbrella from beside him. "You will regret this, Mr Redwood."

"I have no doubt," James said politely. "Better me than you."

__

A/N 2021-09-04: *screams into pillow*