Grace watched James leave the salon, swiftly, with purpose. It was a relief he was gone. If he had stayed another minute, she might have been tempted to slap him.
"What was he whispering about all this time?" Emma asked.
"Nothing," Grace said. "Come, let's find something to eat."
She stood, and as she did so, the movement of the opera singer — hard to miss in her peacock-blue gown — caught her eye. The opera singer was going out through the same door James had gone through. She moved as swiftly as he had, with the same sense of purpose. Alarm bolted through Grace.
"Grace?" Emma said.
"I'm not hungry," Grace said. "You go. I'll stay here."
She stayed in her seat, watching the door. After twenty minutes or so, the opera singer returned, her peacock-blue gown looking somewhat ruffled. Grace turned away and fixed her gaze upon her lap. She was leaping to conclusions. She must be. James would be here soon. He had said he needed air. He had been drunk. It might have been true.
Emma sat down, leaving the seat between them empty. "James isn't back yet."
"Shut up, Emma," Grace said. "The music is to begin again."
The seat between them, where James had been, remained empty for a long time. Grace expected James to come back any moment, but he did not. She kept flicking her gaze at the drab brown servant door, thinking of what she would say to him when he did return, fearing that she would dare say nothing. She never found out, for James did not return.
The music ended without Grace having heard a syllable of it. The people began to disperse, breaking into little crowds to converse. Slowly, the crowds thinned as the guests said goodbye to Mrs Partridge and left. Still, Grace could not see James. Emma hovered by her side, bleating every few minutes, "Where is Mr Redwood? Should we not be leaving soon?"
When the room was empty but for a handful of lingering guests, Grace realized they had been abandoned. The humiliation of it brought tears to her eyes.
"Miss Follet?" Mrs Partridge came bustling over. "But you are still here! Were you that fond of the music?"
There was, in that question, the open hint of 'When are you leaving my house?' Grace looked at the clock. It was half-past midnight.
"It was wonderful music," Emma said. "But we, um..."
"It seems that Mr Redwood has... has had to attend to an emergency," Grace said.
"Really! And left you here! That will not do! How are you to get home?"
Mrs Partridge had the grace to look embarrassed herself. It was a very awkward situation, to be stranded in the house of a host you had met only that evening — or, Grace supposed, to have guests stranded upon you. If Mrs Partridge had said, 'How awkward! How embarrassing!' Grace would have felt much better about it, but Mrs Partridge was very clearly trying to look as though it wasn't embarrassing at all, and that only made it all worse.
"What emer—"
Grace stepped on Emma's foot. "It seems that we'll have to walk. But it's not far."
"Oh, no, I can't let you do that. I'll send for my coach — but I cannot. I have already sent it for the Bells, and they live miles away. What will we do?" Mrs Partridge looked helplessly around the room, as though expecting James to return. "Oh dear. What on earth are we to do?"
"I think we'd best walk."
"We can't walk!" Emma said, rubbing her foot on her ankle. "It's dark and cold. I'm wearing slippers!"
Grace did not see what else they could do. They could hardly wait in Mrs Partridge's house until the coach returned. And it was not very far from home, not more than one or two miles. It was well worth the price of ruined slippers to avoid the embarrassment of obliging yourself to a new acquaintance.
A soft voice intruded upon their conversation: "Is something the matter, Miss Follet?"
Grace turned, startled, to see Benson hovering behind her. He had lingered after the other guests left to talk earnestly to Miss Partridge by the piano. Now, with a pair of riding gloves in one hand, he looked as though he was at last about to leave.
"There's nothing—"
"Mr Redwood has gone away for an emergency and we cannot get home," said Emma.
Benson looked surprised. "How very troublesome."
"And my coach has already been sent out for the Bells," Mrs Partridge said. "Whatever shall we do?"
"I don't suppose I could be of assistance, Madam?" Benson sounded very hesitant and uncertain. "I have but a curricle. It might be a tight squeeze, but I could see the young ladies home."
Mrs Partridge looked relieved. "Well, I am not sure that it is right — a stranger..."
"He is no stranger to us," Emma said. "We know him quite well. Oh, please, Mr Benson. I can't possibly walk."
"Oh, no, Emma." Grace felt her cheeks burn. "We... we might wait for the coach to return."
Mrs Partridge shook her head. "The Bells live in Cheapside. Your parents will be worried if you do not arrive home soon, girls. And Mr Benson can be trusted. He is a man of the cloth."
Trust was not the issue. Grace simply didn't want to be near him. To trespass upon Mrs Partridge's hospitality was embarrassing. To have to ask a favour of Benson was mortifying.
"Grace, I'm tired." Emma tugged at her arm. "Let's just go home. Please."
Benson gave Grace a doubtful look. "Miss Follet?"
Grace took in a deep breath. Emma had a delicate constitution. The roads were dangerous at night. They could not stay at Mrs Partridge's all night. It would be very selfish to prioritize her pride over the practical considerations. She gave a small nod. "It is for the best, I believe."
"Very well then. My curricle should be at the door, if you are ready to leave now."
They were. They said their goodbyes to Mrs Partridge and a few minutes later Benson was handing Grace up into his curricle. He sat between her and Emma. It was far closer than they had been before, far closer than they had been allowed to be. Six years ago, Grace might have welcomed the heat of his thigh against. Now, she could only feel supremely awkward. She kept trying to shift away from Benson, pressing herself against the edge of the seat, holding her breath with the effort to make herself small.
"It was very unfortunate for Mr Redwood to leave you for the emergency," Mr Benson said. "I hope nothing is wrong."
"Nothing much."
"Where'd he go?" Emma asked innocently. "You didn't tell me it was— oh." She went quiet very suddenly. "I'm sure he has a good reason."
Benson took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at Grace. Grace stared away from him, at the houses they were passing, an acute ache in her heart. If it had been anyone but Benson to take them home! And where on earth had James gone?
"I do not wish to intrude," Benson said quietly, "but there was no emergency, was there?"
"Do not intrude then," Grace said.
They drove a little way in silence, the breeze cooling Grace's cheeks and the chill night air helping calm the lump in her throat.
"Have you known Mr Redwood long?" Benson asked after a while.
"Yes."
"But not very well," Emma said. "We've only come to know him well in recent weeks."
"I have known James some years," Grace said. "Emma has not known him as long."
"I see." Benson sounded pained. "And you are engaged to him?"
"As he told you before."
"It is somewhat difficult to believe."
The words were spoken gently, but they hurt nonetheless for it.
"We were all surprised at first," Emma said, "but Grace is very sure about it."
Benson was quiet for a long time and allowed his horses to slow to a walk. Grace wished he would urge them on faster.
"As a vicar," he said eventually, "I've had to marry many couples. And men of Mr Redwood's type... Not that I want to give you any concern, Miss Follet, but men of Mr Redwood's type do not often make good husbands."
"You know nothing of him," Grace said.
"My profession has granted me a certain insight into the world, Miss Follet. In the shepherding of my flock, I have learned how to spot the wolves of our kind. Were you my sister, I would say the same."
"I am not your sister. And if I were, your advice would be as unwanted and as unwise. You know nothing of James Redwood."
Instantly, Benson was apologetic. "My apologies, Miss Follet. My apologies. I do not mean to offend. I only dare speak in the hope of helping you avoid what I feel must be a mistake. If it is your advancing age that impels you to marry a man against your inclination, then I can only urge you to trust your natural inclinations, as they rarely lead us astray in this regard. But if it is your..." He coughed. "...attraction, then I can only urge you to think of Eve and the Apple. Do not listen to the snake, Miss Follet."
"For somebody who means not to offend," Grace said acidly, "you are doing an awful lot of it."
Benson shook his head. "Ah, I have said too much. I had better have held my tongue — I can only assure you, Miss Follet, that I spoke with the best of intentions. My tongue was not moved by jealousy or spite, but only by concern for one who once allowed me to call her dear to me."
There was a hint of woundedness to his tone. Did he still have feelings for her? Had he ever?
It was not worth thinking of. Thankfully, despite the slow pace of the horses, they were approaching the Follet's house. Grace's relief drained away when she saw the figure standing at the front gate with a lamp in his hand: her father. She could not jump from the curricle in time — no, the idea was ludicrous. It would make her father more suspicious. There was nothing to do but wait as the curricle slowly drew up in front of their front gate.
"You are late," Mr Follet said, coming forward, and then he stopped as the light of his lamp fell upon Benson. "What is this? Where is young Redwood?"
Emma jumped down from the coach. "Father, we had—"
"Grace, where is Redwood? Why has this other man brought you home?"
Grace could not speak. She climbed down from the coach without touching the arm Benson held out to her. Her cheeks were burning and her heart was racing with a painful mixture of fury and humiliation.
"Father," Emma tried again.
"Go inside, Emma. It is your sister I will speak to."
Emma shot Grace a sympathetic look and disappeared into the house. Grace met her father's eyes.
"Tell me exactly what is going on, Grace."
"Sir, if you will let me," Benson began.
"I will not let you. Grace!"
"Mr Redwood had to go home abruptly — I... I believe there was some emergency," Grace stammered. "He had not time to think of Emma and me. Mr Benson drove us home."
"Why did Mrs Partridge not send her carriage? Why were the two of you left to the care of this man?"
"Mrs Partridge's carriage was already occupied in sending home the Bells."
"And was there no one else?"
"No, Sir. No one else could take us home."
Mr Follet breathed a gust of air out his nose, like a displeased bull. "Very well then. Sir, you may leave."
Grace thought that someone ought to thank Benson for driving them home, but she could not bring herself to and her father certainly would not. Benson was waiting, indeed, like he expected something more to be said.
"You may leave, sir," Mr Follet repeated. "Grace. Let us go inside."
He took her by the elbow and half-dragged her down the garden path.
"You should never have been near him," her father hissed when they were out of earshot of the departing carriage. "You, in his carriage? What was Redwood thinking? Why did he leave you?"
"I don't know, sir. He... he had to go."
"I will have it out with him. Fool boy." Mr Follet stopped on the front step before the open door. "Do you still hope he loved you?"
Grace drew back. "I— I..."
"He never did." Mr Follet's eyes glittered under the lamplight. "You will marry James Redwood. None other. No silly little curate—"
"He is a vicar now."
"Don't interrupt! I will not see you imperil your engagement with James for a man like Benson! You must forget Benson. Entirely."
"You must not think because of tonight that—"
"Will you forget him?"
"If you are right, there is nothing to remember."
"Answer the question, Grace."
"There is nothing to remember!"
Mr Follet remained staring into her eyes, as though trying to discern the truth in them. "Very well. Now go to bed. It is late."
Grace went inside and up the stairs. In the darkness of the hall, she realized that the warm damp on her cheek was tears.
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A/N 2021-06-14: This is late. I was a bit busy lately and this chapter needed more editing than some others. Actually I still haven't finished editing it, but it ought to be enough for you guys to enjoy. I want to polish Benson's dialogue. He was one of the characters who changed quite a bit from draft 1 to the finished thing, so I want the way he speaks to reflect his character a bit more than it does now.