Moss on the Old Stone Steps

The Grant carriage rolled past me. A gust lifted the curtain, and I caught sight of Arthur bending to smooth Lydia's skirt.

She had taken a fall at the dinner and splashed wine on her hem, so Mother had sent Arthur to take her home before the night air made her ill. The gown that had been on my shoulders lay neatly folded across Lydia's lap.

After the carriage pulled away, a footman came hurrying after me with an umbrella. "Ma'am, the master asks you to wait here. Once he has seen Miss Harrow home, he will come back for you."

More than half of London lay between the Harrow house and the Grant residence. In rain this heavy, even if he did turn back, he might not make it before dawn.

"The master only worries that Miss Harrow may be unwell," the footman added quietly.

I took the umbrella and turned toward the Grant house.

I have always had trouble seeing at night, worse still in the rain. When the gas lamps swayed, the steps and puddles blurred into one. Arthur used to stop the carriage at the mouth of the alley and walk to the door with a lantern in his hand.

He knew I could not see my footing. One winter night I missed a step and twisted my ankle. After that he refused to let me walk alone in the dark and pressed the lantern into my hands. "Hold on to it. Watch your step. Don't rush."

Tonight, that lantern hung on the front of the carriage, lighting Lydia's way home.

I kept close to the eaves and walked slowly. By the time I reached the Grant house, the side door was already bolted. Only my bedroom window still glowed.

The door had not been shut tight. Two maids were making up the bed; the bedding, half-folded, sat on the daybed.

"What is this?"

The older maid answered in a low voice, "The master asked us to prepare the east guest room for Miss Harrow. But the fireplace there smokes, so she will have to stay in your room for now. The daybed in the study has been made up. You can make do there for the night."

"When is she coming?"

"If the Harrow family does not send another carriage, she will stay."

I peeled off my soaked cloak and draped it over the chair. "Take my clothes out."

The maid hesitated. "Only what you need for tonight?"

"Everything I can take with me."

I opened the wardrobe. The first thing I saw was Arthur's coat. He complained that his own wardrobe was too far from the bed and always shoved his clothes into mine. Over time, they had taken up more than half the space.

I filled two trunks: dresses, jewelry, my private account books, and my grandmother's old letters, each item packed in turn. I did not touch a single piece of Arthur's.

As the last trunk latched shut, the sound of wheels finally came from the courtyard. Arthur was home. It was already past midnight.

He pushed the door open, rain still clinging to his shoulders, the smell of the evening's wine on his breath. He frowned. "Why didn't you wait for me to come for you?"

"Didn't you say you would send someone back?"

"That was the plan. But Lydia felt ill again on the way, and we were held up. I lost track of the time." He said it easily, as though he had merely overlooked some trifling errand.

He walked to the table and moved the oil lamp in front of me. "You can barely see at night. How could you come back alone? Was there nobody in the house to escort you?"

"I told them not to follow."

"You always do this. You could ask for help, but you insist on managing everything yourself."

I did not answer, and I stepped away from the hand he held out.

"Lydia has gone back to the Harrow house," he said. "They sent a carriage for her after all. She did not stay in your room, so you needn't worry."

I closed the trunk lid. "What about the deed of separation?"

Arthur went still.

"The one with the deed of gift."

Three days ago, I had given both documents to our butler, Hobbs, and asked him to pass them to Arthur. The deed of gift was on top; the deed of separation lay beneath it. Arthur took the envelope without breaking the seal.

"You're still on about that?"

"I thought you had read it."

"It was just something you wrote in a temper." He softened his tone. "Enough of this. Talk of separation does no one any good."