While James was returning the necklace to Mr Schiaparelli, Grace was pacing the floor of her mother's sitting room, strangely discontent. Alice and Emma were playing pell-mell outside in the drizzle. Uncle Bernard had gone to London for the day to attend to business. The house was quiet and peaceful. Yet she was not at peace.
She tried to read a book, found she could not concentrate, and gave up. Tried to mend some shifts, found she was bored, and stopped. The sound of laughter and thwacking mallets came floating through the window, disturbing her thoughts. She was not sure it was proper to play pell-mell in mourning. Had Mother said it was alright? Did she even know?
Listlessly, Grace trailed around the house looking for her mother. She found her in the study, hunched over a pile of papers at Mr Follet's desk. Mrs Follet was so absorbed in her task that she did not even hear Grace come in.
"Mother?"
Mrs Follet jumped and looked up. "Oh! Yes, dear?"
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes strangely bright. Grace had never seen her mother cry before, and at first was too confused and embarrassed to know what to say.
"Are you... crying?"
"No. Not really." Mrs Follet rubbed her face. "I'm fine, dearest."
"I can tell you're crying." Grace came closer and leaned over the desk. "What is it?" She flicked through the papers. "Letters about houses?"
"Yes, and I'm afraid I just don't know what to do." Mrs Follet's voice shook. "Your father used to make all the decisions for us. I never had to do this kind of thing."
Grace could think of nothing to say and, awkwardly, patted her mother's hand.
"Uncle Bernard tries to help," Mrs Follet said. "He went through all the sums with me, to find what I could afford. And he gives me very good advice. But I just don't think... I'm just not quite sure he understands how I feel."
"All of his advice is to suit his own purposes."
"Your uncle is a good man, Grace."
"He may be a good man, but he will not baulk to take this house and send us all away."
"As is his right, dear. No, I must be grateful to him. He has recommended me a cottage in Kent, which he says a friend of his will let at a good price." She gave Grace a faint smile. "He says it is near the sea. Wouldn't that be nice?"
"Kent. That's the other side of London. How far would we be from everyone we know?"
Mrs Follet faltered. "I think it must be some thirty or forty miles. A great distance, to be sure, but I think James could make it in a day."
"I was not thinking of James." Would he really come so far only to be sent away? She shook her head. "I don't understand why Uncle Bernard gets the house. Father could have left it to you. It is not a grand estate, but it is our home."
"I wouldn't know what to do with it, Grace."
"You've been doing it for thirty years."
Mrs Follet was quiet for a long moment. "It does not matter. Your father didn't leave it to me."
"But why not?"
"He was not that sort of man. He believed that women and men moved in different spheres. Managing property is outside a woman's sphere."
"But he wasn't..." Grace bit her tongue. "He could not have thought what would happen, he could not have imagined he would die."
"I believe he thought that it was wisest to leave it to his brother," Mrs Follet said gently. "And really, Grace, I don't mind. I trust Bernard to help us. This house in Kent is within my means. It has an orchard. I'm sure... I'm sure if Uncle Bernard says it is good, it must be."
Grace watched her mother carefully. The thin line was between her brows and her eyes were still bright. Alice or Emma might have hugged her and taken that brightness away, but Grace had never quite been on those terms with her mother somehow.
"Perhaps." Grace pushed herself away from the desk. "I'm going for a walk."
She slipped out the back gate and crossed the fields as a misty rain struck up in the breeze. She knew where she was going but took a circuitous route to get there, reversing her course several times down long, lonely roads. When her legs were tired, when the sky was dark and her body cold, she drew up shivering at her destination and knocked on the door.
"Can I speak with Mr Redwood?" she asked the footman who opened it.
"Mr James is not at home," he answered.
That made it easier. "It's, um, that's not the Mr Redwood I wish to speak to. It's his father."
The footman looked briefly surprised but crossed directly to the door just off the front hall, knocked, and opened it.
"Who is it?" came Mr Redwood's voice.
"Miss Follet, sir. To see you."
There was a brief silence. "Well, let her in then."
The footman beckoned Grace forward and she rather shyly entered the room. Mr Redwood's study was very different to her father's. The curtains were open to let the last of the dying light inside. A cheerful fire burned in the grate. Rather than severe ancestors, paintings of landscapes and prints of political cartoons lined the walls. Mr Redwood was at his desk, smoking a pipe and playing solitaire.
"This is a pleasant surprise," he said. "Please, sit."
Grace sat down in the nearest armchair, which was very lumpy and shabby, and full of cushions. It was impossible to sit upright in it. The divots and lumps caved in beneath her, sending her sliding back against the cushions. She pulled herself forward and perched uneasily on the very edge of the seat.
Mr Redwood prised himself to his feet and hobbled to the fire, where he knocked out his pipe into the grate. "Does the smoke bother you? Should I open a window?"
"No, no. Not at all."
"Would you like some tea?"
"No, thank you."
"I think I'm going to have coffee. Are you sure you won't join me?"
"Oh. Um. Alright, then. Thank you."
Mr Redwood went to the door and gave a brief order to the footman. Grace found herself slipping back in the armchair and pushed herself up to the edge again. It was a sleeping armchair, she thought; someone had slept in it so much that they had left a hollow where their body had lain, and now it was no longer right for sitting. But it might look strange if she were to move to a different chair, and she did not want Mr Redwood to think she was strange.
Mr Redwood came back and lowered himself into the other armchair opposite her. He sank back into it a little, but he was taller than she and managed not to look ridiculous. "Now that we are both comfortable," he said. "What brought you here, Grace? Is it about James?"
"No, it's not him." Grace swallowed. "It is Uncle Bernard, sir. He inherits the house so we must leave. And he says that he has found my mother and sisters a nice cottage in Kent and I do not trust him. I do not think it right that my mother accepts his opinion on the matter without... without any kind of check and... And I just wish... I wish she would stand up to him."
She found herself slipping back in the chair and leaned on the armrests to stay upright. Mr Redwood was frowning at her as though displeased. She wondered if she had been wrong to come here.
"I may be worried about nothing," Grace said. "I may be making a fool of myself—"
"Nonsense," Mr Redwood said. "You've every right to be concerned."
It was a relief, somehow, to hear it.
"Has he given your mother any idea about when he expects you to vacate the house?'
"He did tell us that we were free to stay as long as needed. But at the same time, it is very clear to me that he wishes us to go. I think he has made Mother nervous about it." She shook her head. "I know he has. But it is this cottage that bothers me the most. He says a friend of his will let it to us cheaply, but all we know of the cottage is what his friend has written about it. And we are strangers to Kent. We know nobody there."
"I'd like to see the particulars myself," Mr Redwood said. "I can advise your mother on any matter of business. Do tell her that."
"She has put it all in my uncle's hands. And I do not trust him."
"Why not?" Mr Redwood asked. "He seemed a rather genial fellow."
"Oh, he is," Grace said bitterly. "He never loses his temper. He's too lazy to bother to be angry about anything."
"Hm. I see. Not the type of man I would wish to be looking after my affairs. We must do better."
It was such a relief to hear this that Grace lost her grip on the arms and sank backwards into the pile of cushions. A smile hovered about Mr Redwood's eyes. She strongly suspected she looked ridiculous.
"On the first matter, you know, your mother must not accept that house without knowing what it is truly like. I will send James to look over it. He can leave tomorrow."
"Where am I going?"
Grace jumped, and slid even further back in the chair. James stood in the doorway in damp breeches and muddy boots, looking tired and cross.
"Kent," Mr Redwood said.
"In this weather?" James scowled.
"The matter is urgent. Either I go, or you do."
James rubbed his face. "And so I go." He sounded annoyed. He turned, as if to leave, but a maid carrying a tray slipped past him into the room. He pivoted on a heel and followed her. When she set down the tray on a table near the armchairs, James sprawled himself expectantly on the floor nearby like a dog. "Another cup, please, Jenny."
"Get a chair, James," Mr Redwood said, leaning forward to pour the coffee.
"She's in mine." James turned his scowl to Grace. "You'll push the lumps out of where I want them."
A moment ago, Grace would have taken any excuse to leave. Now, she wriggled up towards the edge of the seat so she could take her cup of coffee. "You were not here. It needs reupholstering."
"I like it the way it is."
Mr Redwood shook his head helplessly. "Meanwhile, Grace, I will call upon your mother tomorrow, and your uncle if he is there. I will impose upon them both the folly of making rash decisions at a time like this."
"Thank you. Thank you so much, Mr Redwood."
"It is quite alright. Your father was a very close friend of mine. I should have done more before now to look out for you. Unfortunately, I was preoccupied with other matters." His gaze flicked to James then back again. "I want you to know, Grace, that regardless of what happens between you and James, I will always be available should you need assistance or advice."
It was obviously meant to be kind — it was kind — but it only made Grace feel unpleasantly obligated to James. Even if she had broken their engagement, it was only because of their engagement that Mr Redwood was offering her help now. She sipped her coffee unhappily.
The maid returned with another cup for James and he poured his own coffee and drank. He did not seem in the mood to talk. He kept darting sullen glances at his father and clenching his jaw. There was something going on between them, Grace realized, but she was too upset to spare any thoughts for it. Now that her immediate fears were relieved, she had to concentrate quite hard not to let herself cry. The coffee helped.
Mr Redwood looked at his watch. "We have dinner in half-an-hour. Would you like to dine with us, Grace, or would you like to go home?"
She shook her head. "I want to go home, thank you."
"Then James will drive you."
Grace might have refused, but she caught the exasperated roll of James's eyes and saw personal insult in it. Besides, it was black outside now, and she could hear the faint patter of rain.
Mr Redwood called for the curricle and they drank more coffee while they waited for it to be readied. James asked his father what he was to do in Kent, and Mr Redwood explained the matter briefly, leaving Grace free to concentrate on not crying.
"When are you going to take care of the other matter?" Mr Redwood asked at the end. "Not tonight, I think. But do not delay it too long."
James drained his second cup of coffee as a groom appeared at the door. "Later, Father. We'll talk about that later. I'll take Grace home now."
Grace struggled out of the armchair and said goodbye to Mr Redwood then followed James to the carriage. James didn't say a word to her as he helped her up and directed the horses out into the road. The silence grated at Grace. It demanded filling.
"I'm sorry you have to go to Kent," she said.
"It doesn't matter." James sounded as though it did matter very much indeed.
"Of course, I did wonder, if I moved to Kent, if you would ride there to visit me, the way you do now."
"If you wanted me to, I would."
She was stuck then. She could not say she did not want him to, because she was afraid he would take her at her word, and she could not say she did, because it was as good as agreeing they were still engaged. Perhaps she had done that already by coming to Mr Redwood tonight. Or even by getting into the curricle unchaperoned with him. It was careless of her.
"Even if you go to Kent about the house," she said, "it doesn't unbreak our engagement."
James clicked his tongue. "Grace. The only reason I'm going to Kent is because as far as I'm concerned we are engaged."
"You would not do it for a friend?" she challenged.
"Oh, I would." James pulled up the horses and the carriage jolted to a stop. "I would go to Kent for a friend. I would go to the ends of the earth for a friend. But can I call you a friend when you refuse to speak to me six days out of seven and insult me on the seventh?"
"Because you won't accept that I won't marry you!"
"Because I don't believe you really mean it!" James's face twisted with anger. "I wish you did! God knows, I never wanted to marry you!"
The words echoed into the night. Grace stared at James. She knew it was true — knew it had been true since the night of their engagement. Knew it had never stopped being true. And she knew, too, that she had always known it, deep down, unvoiced within her. But it had not mattered. Not til now.
"Then don't," she said. "Don't." She pulled up her skirts and scrambled down from the curricle into the rain. "I'll walk home from here."
"I can't let you walk home alone."
"I don't want to walk with you." She looked up at him. "All I want is for you to leave me alone, James. Really. And since it's what you want too, we should both be happy."
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A/N 2022-01-17: Grace really likes walking in the rain. Fortunately, she is a Regency heroine, not a Victorian one, so she will not catch chill and die.