An Indecent Gambit

Chapter Twenty-Three: A Dog Collar

James left Grace's house feeling thoughtful and just a little hurt. He had known that there had been some history with Benson, something beyond the ordinary sort of history that might be expected of an ex-lover. He had not suspected the truth would be so plain and simple: Benson had been a fortune-hunter, Mr Follet had seen through him, and Grace had been so hurt by the discovery that even now she had not recovered, even now, she hoped to believe the best in Benson.

James was not so kind: while walking Benson down the stairs and out the front door, he had had a terse, quiet conversation with him. Opera singers had been mentioned. As had locks on balconies, unwritten laws of gentlemanly conduct, and, quite casually and half-truthfully, the number of hours James spent each week at the boxing club. Benson had been smiling and opaque: Mr Redwood must be misremembering, Mr Redwood must have quite mistaken the matter, Mr Redwood surely could not think so of a humble country vicar. Every denial he had uttered had made James only more certain that he was a liar. Now that James knew his true history with Grace, he wished he had given in to temptation and kicked Benson down the front steps instead of only warning him off.

He was so angry with Benson that it almost took the sting away from the hurt he felt at Grace's behaviour. It was one thing for her to scorn him for days on end — that he well understood — but he could not like that she had held his hand so obviously only to prove something to Benson. Yes, he had played along, but only for the sake of her pride. Feigned affection made him uncomfortable. He had rather be honestly disliked by a woman than be subject to false, soft touches. And he had not suspected Grace to be capable of such deception.

At dinner that night, he told his parents that Grace had, at last, deigned to see him.

"She must be feeling a little better then," Mr Redwood said. "Did she look well?"

"She looked thin and angry. And she told me that she will not marry me."

"Then you must change her mind," said Mrs Redwood.

"It is not that easy, Mother."

"Have you tried giving her flowers?" Mr Redwood asked.

"No, I have not."

"I don't see the point in flowers," Mrs Redwood said. "They'll be dead in a week. He needs to give her something real, preferably something expensive."

"I doubt I can buy her affection — and if I could, I would not want it."

"It is not to buy her affection," Mr Redwood said. "It is to prove your affection for her."

"I think there is better proof," James said.

"And what would that proof be?" Mr Redwood raised an eyebrow. "James?"

He trailed his fork through his carrots and gravy. He cared for Grace. He was sorry for her. He suspected she knew that already. He suspected she did not care.

"James?"

"I just don't think giving her presents is going to improve the situation."

"You won't know unless you try it," Mrs Redwood said. "Personally, I think something practical would be best, like very nice soap."

James shuddered. "I give you soap for Christmas every second year."

"And it is a very good present."

"But what one gives one's mother as a matter of course is hardly likely to persuade a woman to romance," Mr Redwood said. "I should as soon recommend James give her a tobacco pouch."

"That would be very silly," Mrs Redwood said. "But if you must have it your way, how about a neat little work box?"

"Grace already has one," James objected. "And she does not find embroidery amusing."