Grace Follet was, at that moment, standing on the Turkish carpet in her father's study and wondering if she was in trouble. Mr Follet never called any of his daughters to his study unless they were, and Grace, the most prudent of the five sisters, had not had cause to be called here in six years. She had forgotten how severe and depressing the study was. No paintings adorned the mahogany-panelled walls, bar the severe portrait of her grandmother and grandfather scowling down upon her from above the fireplace. A single case of books always remained locked. The only ornament in the room was a human skull entombed under a glass dome on her father's desk. As children, Grace and her sisters had whispered stories to each other of whom the skull had once belonged to — an enemy of their father's, a highwayman he had shot, a servant who had displeased him. As an adult, Grace still did not know why her father had such a strange object on display.

At his desk, her father signed the letter he had been writing and set it aside to dry. He looked up and examined her through ever-unsmiling eyes. Grace noted indifferently that the thick creases beneath them were deeper than usual.

"You are twenty-five," Mr Follet said.

"Yes, sir."

"You are almost of an age to be unmarriageable."

"I am not getting younger."

"I would not like you to grow old unwed," Mr Follet said. "Aged spinsterhood is an unhappy state of being. And you would be a burden to your sisters. A burden to their husbands."

"I have no wish to be a burden upon anyone."

"I know you don't." Mr Follet's thin lips tightened in what might have been a smile. "You are an industrious young woman."

That was unexpected. Mr Follet hardly ever praised his daughters. The flutter of pride Grace felt was instantly followed by damping suspicion. She was not in trouble. So why had her father called her here?

Mr Follet looked idly at the skull, as though holding a silent conversation with it. "I received a visit from an old friend of mine last week," he said. "Mr Redwood — you remember him?"

"Yes, sir." Ancient. Cadaverous. Intimidating. Like most of her father's friends. "I remember Mr Redwood very well."

"He is a great philosopher," Mr Follet continued. "He has many interesting ideas about science and religion. Last week, however, he brought up a compelling hypothesis about a matter closer to hand."

Was it possible that her father had brought her to his study merely for idle conversation?

"He believes that your sedate, well-governed nature and his son's spirited one would form two complementary parts."

No. It was not possible. Of course not.

"You look offended." Mr Follet raised a querying eyebrow. "Is his hypothesis of such revulsion to you?"

"His hypothesis?" Grace shook her head. "It doesn't bear consideration, I'm afraid."

"But I am asking you to consider it." There was steel in Mr Follet's voice.

"The hypothesis being..." Not love, it could not be love if her father suggested it. "...Marriage?"

"Yes."

"To James Redwood?"

"Indeed."

Grace tried to look as though she really was considering it. She counted to fifty before she answered. "I don't think James Redwood and I would suit, Father."

Mr Follet nodded. "That was my first thought too. He is such a boisterous, happy-go-lucky young man. You do not have much in common. But I did not pause on my first thought, Grace, and nor should you. There are material and social advantages to such a match. James Redwood will be a wealthy man one day. His family is of very good standing in the community. People respect the Redwood name."

"Not when prefaced by James, Sir. Not after the incident a few weeks ago at Lady Dainburgh's ball."

"A most unfortunate to-do," Mr Follet said. "The woman in question must have been quite hysterical."

"I imagine you would have to be, to attempt to murder your husband in the middle of the minuet," Grace said. "But in the midst of hysteria she likely spoke the truth. James Redwood is the only man she ever loved. And since then, I cannot hear the name James Redwood without also hearing whispered the names of other women who might have loved him. It does not help that he was a witness in that awful divorce case last summer. Nor that he is handsome and flirtatious. I suppose that is why his father wants him to get married. To fix his reputation."

A smile crossed Mr Follet's face, though it did not reach his eyes. "A not inaccurate judgement. What of it?"

"It seems a rather mercantile transaction."

"If it is, it is one in which you gain more than you lose. James Redwood is the sole heir to a substantial fortune. In the meantime, he is privileged with the use of a generous income and a London townhouse. He is not, like so many other young man, dependent on his wife's dowry for his income. He is not a fortune hunter."

The familiar cold burn of resentment lit in Grace's belly, but all the words she had to say had been said years ago so she remained silent.

Her father must have understood her silence anyway. "I would be very unhappy, Grace, if in two or three years you were to look back at this moment and regret not considering the idea. A woman of twenty-five is in no position to be overparticular. I have been asking myself: are you likely to find, at your age and in your circumstances, a better prospect than James Redwood?"

A face and the name that belonged to it flashed before Grace's eyes. Even if he were— had he been? —a fortune hunter, George Benson had never blackened his own reputation by allowing married women to fall in love with him. But it was six years too late to consider him a prospect.

"I have considered it. And I do not like the idea," she said. "I had sooner never marry at all."

The crease under Mr Follet's right eye twitched. He lifted the glass dome from the skull and carefully dusted it with a small feather-brush he kept on his desk to the purpose. Grace knew very well that she was not dismissed and that the argument was not over. This was merely an interregnum. Mr Follet always made sure to never let an argument be over until he had won it.

She looked wistfully at the two hard-backed chairs her father reserved for visitors. Her father ought to have invited her to sit down. Perhaps if she remained standing he would remember his own bad manners. Perhaps he would only get a crick in his neck from looking up at her.

He finished dusting the skull and replaced the glass dome again.

"There are some ladies, I understand, who are happier without husbands," Mr Follet said, as though describing a peculiar species of insect. "In those cases, I suppose, they must be unnaturally absent of the normal womanly ambition to raise children."

"I'm not—"

"I would not, of course, force you into any arrangement you found intolerable," Mr Follet said, "but I am not convinced that you have given the matter due thought. How well do you know James Redwood?"

"I know him by acquaintance." He was one of a type of men that Grace thought of as very Tonnish. Always over-dressed, always talking too fast and laughing too loud, and always being so very busy about doing so much nothing-in-particular. "The idea of an arranged marriage to a man like him..."

"Not quite arranged," Mr Follet said. "Facilitated, shall we say? Your own weak endeavours in the area have not borne fruit. I think, after what happened, that you're just too shy to find a husband on your own. Perhaps you will like James more than you think."

"I am not shy. I'm merely not ready to agree to marry a man without talking to him about it."

Mr Follet smiled thinly. "Then it is a good thing I have invited the Redwoods to dinner tomorrow, is it not? You will have the opportunity to talk to James as much as you please."

And now she was dismissed. Grace opened her mouth to argue further, realized it would be futile, and turned and left the room.

The next morning before breakfast, Grace's mother came to her room and confessed to Grace that she knew of Mr Follet's plan and was not entirely sure about it. Mrs Follet was never entirely sure about anything, but Grace's mind was already made: she would not marry James Redwood. The whole notion was ridiculous. With that decided, she could approach the impending dinner with complete composure. She dressed with no more care than usual, and when her hair refused to curl she simply instructed the maid to pull it back smooth and tie a ribbon through it. When the Redwoods arrived, Grace thought privately that even that had been too much effort. Mr Redwood was pleasant enough, with a kindly smile that showed about the eyes, and Mrs Redwood wielded heavy, formal manners, but James slouched in after them with his hands in his pockets and a resentful set to his mouth. He greeted her father with a soggy bow, gave her mother what amounted to a handwobble rather than a handshake, and then scanned Grace and her two unmarried sisters with surly blue eyes that were all too clearly making a mental account of their figures and faces.

"Which one is Grace?" he said.

Emma giggled. "Why do you wish to know, Mr James?"

"Maybe it's her," Alice said, jogging Emma with her elbow.

James turned on his heel and in three long strides made the front door.

"James!" Mrs Redwood said sharply. "James, come back here!"

With an audible sigh, James turned back.

"This," Mr Redwood said, taking Grace's elbow and bringing her forward, "is Miss Grace Follet."

James jerked his head at her, in what seemed to be a greeting. Grace curtseyed in response. After, he remained glowering at her. She had rather the impression that he expected her to blush or look away, so she did neither, merely meeting his eyes and thinking to herself that it did not seem likely that he had been lovers with half as many women as rumour whispered.

"Shall we to the drawing room?" Mr Follet said, passing in front of Grace and averting what was threatening to become a staring match between her and James. "Perhaps you would like a sherry, Mrs Redwood?"

They moved to the drawing room where James thumped down into a chair without waiting for the ladies to be seated first. Mr Follet disapproved of his daughters drinking before dinner, so Grace had no opportunity to avail herself of the sherry he pressed upon Mrs Redwood. It would have been nice. James kept shooting unhappy glances at her, and Alice was watching him and nudging Emma to watch too. Mr Redwood and Mr Follet carried the conversation between them with little regard for the others in the room. A chapel had been discovered in the excavation of Hastings Castle, which was to Mr Follet a matter of great interest and excitement.

"Several coffins unearthed," he exclaimed. "Can you imagine the people who lived there, Redwood? Kings, princesses, knights, buried for centuries only to come to light now, and almost by accident."

"Disturbed in their rest," Mr Redwood said.

"They were not sleeping," Mr Follet said. "They were dead. What stories they could tell! What history is buried beneath our feet!"

James looked at the drawing-room carpet. "It's probably a midden," he said dolefully. "I understand it generally is."

Emma burst into giggles, but when Mr Follet shot her a sharp glance she clapped her hands over her mouth to suppress them.

"James," Mrs Redwood said, in a voice that could have driven a nail through stone. "Be polite."

Mr Follet ignored James altogether and turned back to Mr Redwood. "It makes one think," he said, "what history will come of us when we are dead. When there is no one to remember our names, what anonymous legacy will we leave?"

"That is not what I think," Mr Redwood said. "I had much rather not think of that. The time may be closer at hand than I like to imagine."

Grace thought that was a joke, but she stilled the smile that rose to her lips when nobody laughed.

Mrs Follet said timidly, "Now, Mr Redwood, I am sure that is not so."

"It is a great deal of nonsense," Mr Follet said. "Redwood never did have any sense of romance."

"I don't think it's very romantic to think about being dead," said James. "Worms and maggots and—"

"James," Mrs Redwood said. "You will be quiet now."

They all fell quiet, except for Emma who was struggling to control another fit of giggles. After a moment, Mr Follet resumed the conversation and Mr Redwood joined him. Until the footman came to call them for dinner, the two men carried the conversation alone. In the dining room, conversation once more died. Mr Redwood took his soup in minute, concentrated sips. James only ran his spoon lethargically around the rim of his bowl. Mrs Redwood ate precisely and neatly, with such regular movements that one might have used them as a metronome. She finished her soup first and looked around the table.

"Talk to Miss Follet, James," Mrs Redwood ordered. "Why are you not speaking?"

"I am being quiet." James cast an injured glance at his mother. "Like you told me to be."

"And now you may talk."

James frowned across the table at Grace. He seemed to be at a loss for words. Grace wondered again if it could be true that he had been the lover of so many women. He had the looks for it, but he did not seem to have much else. Still, she ought to talk to him, if only to make her father believe she had made an effort.

"Are you interested in history, like your father is?" she ventured.

"No," James said.

"Perhaps science is more to your taste?"

"Not really."

"Do you like the arts then? Poetry, perhaps?"

"No." He tilted his head back and looked down his nose at her. "I take it you do, Miss Follet?"

"No," Grace said. "I don't really see the point in poetry."

"Then why do you ask about it?"

"I was wondering what your academic interests are."

"I don't have any," James said.

He was probably, Grace thought, not very bright. She smiled politely and looked away on the excuse of rearranging her napkin. Next to her, Emma dropped her spoon into her soup bowl.

"Cook has really kicked our fun tonight," she announced. "Gallons of this tomato soup and hardly anyone here can swallow it. We must apologize. Oh!" Emma blushed. "That is, I suppose it is my mother who must apologize."

"The soup was perfectly adequate," Mrs Redwood said. "There was nothing wrong with it."

"Emma," Mr Follet said, in the hard, cold tone he so often used with his two youngest daughters. "How many times have I told you not to use the language of those beneath you? And even if you do not like your soup, you must eat it."

"She did eat her soup," James said. "I don't know quite how, but her bowl is empty."

Alice laughed. "Emma never has any trouble finishing a meal, Mr James. Can you not tell?"

Emma's plump cheeks flushed red, and she made a movement under the table that was, judging by Alice's suppressed yelp, a pinch of the thigh.

"I envy Miss Emma's healthy appetite," James said with a heavy sigh. "I am in a black mood, Miss Alice, and I cannot bring myself to eat. I fear I will waste away."

Grace ran her eyes over James's fair, glowing skin, firm jaw, and full, sun-blond mop of hair. He did not look as though he was wasting away. And the soup was truly not very good tonight. Mrs Follet had trouble managing her servants and the cook often took advantage of her.

"James is a healthy and thriving young man," Mr Redwood said, "who enjoys feeling sorry for himself."

James looked hurt. Emma giggled again. Mr Follet caught her eye and she meekly looked at her lap.

Interruption came as the servants removed the soup bowls and Mr Follet stood to carve the mutton.

"I know you won't have any, Redwood," he said, "your digestion being what it is, but your son will no doubt find enjoyment in this."

"I find enjoyment in nothing," James said.

"Then there is little purpose in giving him meat," Mr Redwood said. "James may confine his suffering to the boiled beans and carrots."

A look of abject horror fell over James's face. "A little... a little trout would... do me no harm."

"But no good either, if you have no enjoyment in it."

Grace thought the narrowing at the corners of Mr Redwood's eyes was a smile, but she could not be sure.

"Perhaps Mr James would like to try the croquettes," Mrs Follet offered. "I am afraid that the soup was really not very good, but our cook has never spoiled a croquette yet." She looked anxiously at Mrs Redwood. "I have such trouble managing the dinners. Do you not find it difficult?"

"No," Mrs Redwood said. "I do not."

There was something about the way Mrs Redwood spoke that seemed to leave conversation cold and dead in her wake. After a while, Mr Follet started up again about the excavation at Hastings, and conversation then moved on to Egypt, and Greece, and other places none of the women had ever been. As the two men were at opposite ends of the table, this made it awkward for the women to talk amongst themselves. Mrs Follet tried on occasion to make conversation with Mrs Redwood, but they had, it seemed, no common ground. Mrs Redwood was everything Grace's mother was not: cold, sharp, competent, and determined. It was a relief when, as the women retired to the drawing room, she went to the washroom and left them alone for a few minutes.

"James!" Alice mimicked. "James, do not slouch! James, talk to Miss Follet! James, eat the broccoli!"

There was no Mr Follet to suppress Emma now. She burst into a fit of unconstrained, full-bodied laughter. "You could not be a man and stand being spoken to thus! But how rude he is! Why on earth did father invite them?"

"You are far ruder than he is," Grace said. "You would both of you do well to mind your manners about our guests."

"You are only saying that because he asked who you were," Alice said. "It was not encouragement, Grace. It was quite the opposite. When a man sees a woman and asks her name, it means he is interested in her. When a man asks which woman belongs to a name, it means he's heard something dreadfully embarrassing about you, like that time your garter fell off in church and the vicar held it up and asked if any of the ladies had lost a hair ribbon."

"I am telling you to be polite because you are being far ruder than James."

Alice shrugged. "I see no purpose in cultivating the good opinion of Father's friends. Or, for that matter, Father."

"Alice," Mrs Follet said. "You should not say such things. Not of your father, nor of a guest in our house."

Alice, who could be shouted at by Mr Follet for an hour and emerge from his study still grinning, coloured at this mild reproof. "But I do not like Mr James, Mother," she said. "He is so very offensive."

Mrs Follet looked at Grace, her brow twisted with concern. "Perhaps he improves upon acquaintance."

"Upon acquaintance with Alice, nobody improves," Grace said. And as Mrs Redwood returned at that moment and prevented further conversation on the topic, she had the rare triumph of getting the last word.

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A/N 2021-05-25: And the female love interest is introduced.