Grace sat upstairs in the small room at the front of the house that Mrs Follet used as a sitting room. It was little more than a nook, really, with four rickety chairs at a rickety table and a wooden bench under the window with its hardness poorly disguised by threadbare cushions. Detritus from other parts of the house collected here: pell-mell mallets, a broken umbrella, a collection of very old magazines, an unfinished embroidery sampler, a frayed deck of cards, and, for some reason, several empty boxes of tooth powder. It was a cold, uncomfortable room, but it had the advantage that Uncle Bernard never set foot in it. He preferred the drawing room, with its greater fire and softer chairs. Over the past week, Grace had sat in here a great deal. It gave her time alone to think, and through the window she could watch James arrive on his daily call and then watch him leave, rejected, a few minutes later.
Today, he was late. It was past noon, and still he had not arrived. Yesterday, he had not come at all, but his absence had been explained when Mrs Redwood came by the house in the evening to give them a fruit cake she had made herself — he was in London for the day.
He would come soon. Perhaps he had slept late after his journey. And when he did...
"He's not coming."
Grace jumped and turned the door. Alice stood there, holding a plate of fruit cake.
"Do you want some?" she asked through a mouthful. "It's quite bad, but it grows on you."
"Fine." Grace got up from the bench and took a slice of cake. "It's all the better if he doesn't come. I don't want to see him."
"Which explains why you watch so devotedly at the window." Alice set the plate down on the table and flipped through the pile of magazines. "June 1818. December 1816. March 1806 — goodness, what queer hats men used to wear." She dropped the magazine and regarded the pell-mell mallets quizzically. "I wonder if we can play pell-mell in mourning?"
"I hate pell-mell."
"Of course you do." Alice took another slice of cake. "I wish I had a lover to scorn. I think I'd be good at it. And it does seem fun."
Grace nibbled at the cake. It tasted overpoweringly of brandy. She put her slice back on the plate. "It's not a game. I wish James would leave me alone."
"I wish he would too," Alice said. "I think you're better off without him. He always was a princock."
Grace coughed. "A what?"
"A princock. The cook says it about the stableboy."
"Which is probably reason enough not to repeat it." Grace tested the cake again and found it no more to her liking. "What does it mean?"
"The stableboy is always cheeking the cook and trying to pinch the scullery maid."
"James isn't like that at all. He's brash, and vain, and downright foolish sometimes, but he's not—" Grace broke off as the doorbell rang. "That must be him. But I won't see him. He must learn that I meant what I said."
Alice raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
A few moments later, footsteps sounded on the stairs and the footman appeared in the doorway.
"Mr Benson to call upon Miss Follet," he announced. "Is Miss Follet at home?"
"Mr... Benson?" A shiver of unease ran down Grace's spine. "I'm not— No, send him up."
Alice looked warily at her. "What's he doing here? You're not scorning two lovers are you?"
"Don't be silly." Grace checked her reflection in the window and flattened a stray lock of hair. "Stay here while he talks to me."
"And what if he has lover-like things to say?"
That was exactly the point. But he wouldn't. No. He could not feel that way after all this time. Perhaps he never had. "Just stay, Alice."
Footsteps sounded in the passage again, and the footman led Mr Benson into the room. It felt instantly too small and cramped, but Grace did not wish to move to the drawing room where Uncle Bernard was snoozing by the fire. She gave Benson a brief curtsy. Alice did not move from her chair. Benson gave her a reproving glance but said nothing of her rudeness; he always had been a little afraid of Alice.
"Good morning, Miss Follet." He took a short breath. "Miss Alice."
"Oh good morning, vicar," Alice said sweetly.
Benson plucked at his collar. "I deliberated at length before making this call. I did not know whether my presence would hurt or heal. But as one who — used to be — a very close friend, I wished to offer my sincere condolences in this difficult time."
He had come to give sympathy. Grace let out a small sigh of relief. "Thank you, Mr Benson. Your condolences are appreciated."
Having said that, the conversation might well have been politely concluded, but Benson made no move to leave. His gaze wandered curiously around the room, taking in the embroidery sampler and tooth-powder boxes, then lingering on the fruit cake. Alice moved the cake plate silently into her lap.
Benson looked at Grace, meeting her eyes in silence. After an awkward moment, none too long, his gaze drifted sideways. He seemed at a loss for what to say, but equally lost as to the direction of the door. Eventually, he placed a hand over the black band on his arm.
"I, too, understand what it is to lose one dear to one's heart," he said. "The sorrow, the grief, the... sadness." He sighed deeply. "But it was your father's time. He was called to God. You must take solace in that. Indeed, there is joy to be found in the reflection that in departing this mortal world, our dearest have gone to God."
Alice rolled her eyes. Grace tried to think of a polite way to get rid of him. But Benson was warming to his theme. He parted his feet and looked down his chin at her, as he might while standing on the pulpit and addressing his congregation.
"And I hope it will give you some peace to know that even though I personally have no reason to love your esteemed father, I have been unsparing my prayers for him and for your family. And you of course. I may no longer have the liberty of calling you dear to me, but that does not mean I would wish to spurn you God's aid in your trials. Indeed, those who have wounded me most are those for whom I must beg the most mercy."
"That is most magniloquent of you," Grace said.
"I should hope to be." Benson stroked his throat, watching her. "Pray tell me, how did he die? It was rather sudden, wasn't it? Rather a shock?"
"The doctor said it was his heart."
Benson shook his head. "Dreadful, dreadful. He was not very old. And now he leaves you, and your poor young sisters, quite unprotected in the world."
"Our mother is still alive," Alice said sweetly. "She's probably upstairs."
Benson coughed. "I mean, unprotected by a male, quite at the mercy of the world. What a tragedy it is that Mr Follet did not leave behind a son to look after his daughters."
"I suppose it is lucky, then, that we have two brothers-in-law, and that I am engaged," Grace said.
"As far as I'm concerned, we've a surplus of men," Alice said.
Benson shot her an uncertain half-smile. "It can feel so, yes, indeed I think it can, when the one you wish most to be here never shall be again."
"Or when you simply wish—" Alice broke off as a knock came at the door. It was the footman again.
"Mr Redwood is here for Miss Follet," he said.
Benson stiffened, and Alice grinned. Grace faltered; she could not refuse to see James in front of Benson. Not after she had just called herself engaged.
"Please bring him up," she said.
"Mr Redwood is a pillar of support amidst the storm of your tragedy, I suppose?" Benson said.
"Oh, he calls every day," said Alice.
Grace thought that Benson might leave, but he only moved to face the door, his back against a wall. When James entered, he stared at Benson, then looked enquiringly to Grace. Everybody seemed to be looking at her, and the room felt very small and overcrowded. A wave of dizzying heat rushed over her. If only James hadn't called. If only Benson would leave. If only Alice wasn't grinning like that.
Embarrassment compelled her to break the silence.
"James," she said. "James." That seemed highly inadequate, and Benson was watching her the way a cat watches a bird in a cage. She could not let him suspect how she felt about James. She crossed the room and took James's hand with both of hers. "You're here."
He looked at her through narrow blue eyes, then at Benson and Alice. "We are all here, it seems."
His tone was chill. Benson looked rather smug and knowing. Grace took a deep breath and played with James's fingers in what she hoped was a lover-like fashion. He was wearing gloves, so it did not feel lover-like, but perhaps it would look it to Benson. James watched her hands then raised his gaze to hers, looking troubled. He looked down again, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. It surprised Grace entirely, and, as it is with surprises, her heart skittered.
James let her hand drop. "I remember you. Benson."
Benson raised his eyebrows. "I am surprised. Given the state you were in when we met, your recollection must be clouded."
"Not at all. It is clear as crystal. But now is not the time to reminisce." James crossed the room in two steps and picked up the broken umbrella standing in the corner with the pell-mell mallets. "You can borrow this one, Benson."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Well, it is beginning to rain. Did you ride, or have you a cart?"
"As it happens, I walked from the inn. My carriage is there."
"Walking is very healthful," James murmured. "I fancy it would do my calves good to take the stairs once more. I will see you out."
Benson looked to Grace. She felt overwhelmed and suddenly very tired. "Yes, thank you for your condolences, Mr Benson," she said. "I will pass your kind thoughts on to our mother. Goodbye."
Alice fluttered lazy fingers in his direction. James looked pointedly at him. Benson hesitated, then slipped past James and out into the hall. James followed, carrying the umbrella. Grace sank down onto a chair, while Alice went to the window and looked out.
"That was rather sporting of James," she said reluctantly. "I suppose he's not all bad. But what for does a man go speaking of his calves in public?"
"What does James do anything for?" Grace said wearily. "You can leave, Alice. I don't want you here when James and I talk."
Alice pressed her face to the glass. "I want to see Benson leave. I want to know he's gone. He was rubbing salt in our wounds. And I used to like him." She fell silent for a few moments. "They're taking a long time to get to the front door. Do you suppose they're fighting over you? Who would win? —No, here is Benson. He's walking very fast. That umbrella is missing a spoke. Alright, I'm off. You can enjoy James on your own."
Grace buried her face in her hands. She would not be able to avoid James now. Sure enough, shortly after, there was a step and he entered the room. Grace lifted her face. He was leaning against the door, looking displeased.
"I take it you haven't actually changed your mind, and the display of hand-mangling was only for Benson's pleasure?"
"I didn't want him to suspect."
James stripped his gloves and shoved them into his pocket. "Well, at least you're speaking to me."
"I'm not marrying you."
James sighed and sat down on the bench. "One day, I'm going to teach you how to hold hands properly."
The remark made Grace's hand tingle where James had kissed it. She rubbed at the spot furiously, feeling betrayed by herself. Her hand had been kissed by dozens of men. James was no different. And it had only been a display anyway.
"I suppose you're jealous of Benson," she said.
"Not at all. It was clear you wanted to get rid of him even more than you want to get rid of me." James ruffled his forelock; it was getting too long and hung rather in his eyes. "What happened between the two of you?"
"We were engaged. And then I decided... we should not marry."
James crossed his legs and looked thoughtfully at her. "Tell me about it."
"You're just curious."
"Am I not allowed to be curious about you now? I am. I can see you don't love him, but you clearly feel something strongly for him — not anger, no." James shook his head. "That's all on his side, isn't it? He didn't take kindly to you turning him down."
Grace's cheeks flamed. "He was a perfect gentleman. He did not call every day against my wishes."
"Should I leave?" James got to his feet. "I will go now if that is what you wish. But I will be here again tomorrow. Every day, until I am sure you are speaking from truth and not from grief."
He stood there, waiting for an answer. Grace looked away, unable to speak.
"Very well then," James said after a long silence. "Until tomorrow."
"No." Her fingers trembled. "Stay."
Slowly, James sat down again.
"Do you think Benson hates me?" Grace asked.
"Not hate, no. He's angry. I think you hurt his pride gravely when you sent him away. Or perhaps you still hurt his pride in some way. Men are prideful creatures."
His tone was soft but frank. Grace rested her cheek on her palm and looked at him. There was something about the set of his mouth that reminded her a little of the night they had become engaged, something guarded about his eyes.
"I've hurt your pride," she said.
"It was due for a pricking."
It was unexpectedly gracious of him. Grace rubbed her cheek. If it came to it, she was not without her own pride. Benson would not be able to make her feel as ashamed and uncertain as she did if she had just a little more natural humility.
"Benson was always so sweet to me," she said quietly. "I was so sure he loved me."
James looked surprised. "But now... you're not sure?"
Grace shrugged. She turned her gaze to the cake plate and ground a brandy-sodden crumb flat into the china. "My father said George wanted to marry money." Her voice wavered but did not break. "As though any of us want to marry poor."
"He forbade you from marrying Benson."
"No." Tears pricked her eyes. "He did no such thing. He only told me that I was a... a blind little fool to believe that George loved me, and not my dowry. And I was sure my father was wrong. At first, I was so certain, because I loved George so much." Now her voice broke and she had to swallow several times. "But then I began to see that my loving him was no proof that he loved me."
"Did you ask him?"
She shook her head. "How could I? Would I even have believed what he had to say? No. I could not be certain of him, so I sent him away." She wiped her eyes. "What really hurts is that I still don't know what is true. I don't know if my father was right, and Benson played me for a fool, or if he was wrong, and I turned away a man who truly loved me."
She risked meeting James's eyes and found that he was watching her with an expression of intolerable pity on his face. She shuddered to see it.
"What do you think?" she demanded. "Did he love me, or was my father right?"
"I can't possibly know."
"You must have an opinion. I know you do."
James hesitated. "Your father was a hard man to fool, Grace."
Grace's lip trembled. She bit down hard on it. "He might have been wrong."
"He might have been."
It did not sound like James believed it. Grace buried her face once more in her hands and held her breath to keep from sobbing. She did not believe it either, not anymore. Perhaps she had never believed it. But she wanted to.
A touch at her shoulder told her that James was standing over her. He stroked her hair. She managed to breathe out slowly. Tears were leaking hotly through her fingers and running down her wrists. She did not want James to see them, even though she knew he already must have, because she felt that he would understand if he did that they were not tears for her father, nor even tears for Benson, but tears for herself for having been fooled, and that seemed more shameful, even, than the act of being fooled.
"Please go," she whispered through her hands. "Please. Leave me."
His hand froze on her crown. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. Go." She cleared her throat. "Now, please."
"As you wish." He stepped away from her. "I'll be back again tomorrow, of course."
"I may not see you."
"I know. I'll be here anyway."
His footsteps moved away, then the door opened and gently shut again. Grace raised her head and went to the window in time to see him trot out down the garden drive, blurred by her tears and by the rain on the window. He did not look back at the house as he left, but she had noticed he never did.
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A/N 16-11-2021: I'm not even sure how long updates are taking me right now, frankly... I don't wanna know!! D: but there is progress, however slow, behind the scenes. I promise.