An Indecent Gambit

Chapter Twenty-One: A Spasm of Grief

Perhaps, James thought as he followed Grace through the rain, he could have approached the matter with greater delicacy. He had made Grace angry. Every time he came close to her, she swatted at him with the umbrella. It was still raining quite heavily too. His hair was plastered flat over his head and his coat was soaking through at the seams.

On the other hand, the anger might be good for her. It had certainly brought some colour to her cheeks and fire to her eyes.

When they reached the crossroads, Grace took a different path, not the one back to her home. James trotted closer, dodging the swipe she aimed at him.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Don't talk to me," she snapped. "Don't say another word."

James retreated beyond reach of the umbrella. "My boots are wet through," he said. "They'll probably shrink."

"You deserve it." Grace marched on through the rain, her sodden skirts clapping stiffly around her ankles. Traces of dye were leaking from her dress onto her stockings and gloves.

"Your dress is running," he said. "You'd really best go home and get into something dry. We'll probably both catch a cold."

"Just be quiet!"

Grace splashed on through a puddle. James picked his way after her. The rain was starting to slow, and sunlight was burning through the clouds on the horizon. People would be emerging from their homes soon, going for walks or running errands. He did not so much mind looking like a fool himself, but he didn't wish for anyone to see Grace as she was now. Her cloak covered up any indecency the rain might have made of her dress, but her hair was in a bedraggled knot halfway down her neck and her skirts were losing more dye by the minute. Appearing like this in public, particularly when she was supposed to be in mourning, would make her the subject of ridicule and scorn.

"Please let's not go to the village," he said. "If it's your mother you want to speak to, we'll go home and I'll send for her."

"We're not going to the village." Grace turned down a side street as she spoke. "We're going to your father."

That silenced James. He had not considered what his father might have to say about this.

They reached his house just as the rain slowed to a drizzle. Grace pushed through the front door and strode straight up the stairs to the drawing room, dripping purple dye in her wake. Mr and Mrs Redwood were having tea and biscuits together by the fire, cocooned against the draught by tall screens.

"You're dripping!" Mrs Redwood said. "James, step away from that couch! It's silk."

Now that they were here, Grace seemed not to know what to say. She stood in the middle of a growing puddle on the carpet, breathing heavily and glaring from James to Mr Redwood and back again.

"I think you had best call for more tea and biscuits, Margaret," Mr Redwood said. "And some towels. Why don't you sit down, Grace?"

Mrs Redwood set her teacup down and left the room. James pushed forward a chair before Grace could sit on the silk couch. She sank down into it, her hands shaking. He thought perhaps she was going to cry, but she clenched her hands and appeared to pull herself together.

"He won't accept that I won't marry him," Grace said. "The man can't refuse to accept that. It's not... it's not done."

Mr Redwood looked surprised. James had to give Grace credit for that. In all of twenty-seven years, he had not managed to surprise his father once.

"And why, my dear, do you wish to break— but no. To wish it is enough. I must not overstep." Mr Redwood raised an eyebrow in James's direction. "You know very well that a man accepts a woman's word in this circumstance."