Moss on the Old Stone Steps

At the dinner that was meant to formally acknowledge my place in the family, Lydia wept and asked if I would admit, before every guest in the room, that she was the Harrow family's only daughter. The roomful of silk and perfume went still. Seven years ago, the parish birth register and letters left by my grandmother had proved that I was the Harrow family's own daughter, lost years before. Yet since I was brought back to London from the countryside, I had been kept in the most remote wing of the house, never presented for the Season, never once named in a family announcement. It was only when my great-uncle, who administered my grandmother's estate, came to the door demanding answers that Father was compelled to arrange this dinner and introduce the true Miss Harrow to family, friends, and the press. But the moment Lydia's tears fell, Mother stripped the gown from my shoulders and draped it over hers. My brother Charles picked up a pen in front of the assembled guests and struck my name from the announcement he had just inscribed. My husband, Arthur Grant, took hold of my wrist and drew me before the guests. He kept his voice low, as though reasoning with a child who did not understand. "It's only a few words. Why must you push Lydia into a corner?" I looked at him and did as he asked. Lydia's tears gave way to a smile. Father, Mother, and Charles recovered their composure. The party went on, glasses clinked, as though the person whose name had just been erased had never existed. That evening, they asked me to sign over my grandmother's old house to Lydia as her painting studio. What they did not know was that the house had been sold to the railway company a fortnight ago. I had been slow to sign the deed of gift. In the end, I put my name to it after all, and on a separate sheet I signed a deed of separation from Arthur.Through the iron gate I could see moss in the cracks, and all at once I no longer wanted to go inside. Chapter 1 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." Chapter 2 A knock came at the door: the Harrow carriage had left, and Lydia was safely home. Arthur called back an acknowledgment and stood. "Sleep in the study tonight. In the morning I'll have these trunks moved to the storeroom on the south side. It's dry there; the clothes will keep." He bent to fasten the trunk lock, perfectly at ease. He assumed this was nothing more than a fit of temper; by morning I would carry the trunks back. It did not occur to him to ask why there was not a single piece of his clothing inside. At first light, the kitchen sent up a bowl of vermicelli soup. A poached egg rested on top, with a small dish of chopped pickles on the side. Arthur could not cook, except for this one thing. In the first year of our marriage, just after I had left the Harrow house, I often woke in the middle of the night. He never minded being disturbed. He would pull on his dressing gown, go down to the kitchen to boil water, and bring me a bowl of half-raw vermicelli. His cooking never improved, but in time I learned to sleep through the night. Today's bowl was plainly not his work. Chopped onion floated in the broth, and I never ate onion. The maid who brought it said, "The master left very early. He made a point of telling the kitchen to prepare as usual." "Where has he gone?" "Miss Harrow had a nightmare last night. Mrs. Harrow asked him to look in on her." I picked the onion out and set it on the side plate. Halfway through the meal, Hobbs came in with an armful of account ledgers and asked me to check the month's household expenses. Arthur's father had died young; the household was small, and I had always kept the books. Arthur disliked poring over figures. Even a rise of a few shillings in the price of coal tried his patience. By the second month of our marriage, he had handed me every key in the house. He said that husband and wife should be able to entrust each other with their very lives, so the household keys were the least of it. I believed him for seven years. "From now on, take these ledgers to the front hall," I said. Hobbs assumed I was still upset about the previous night and coaxed me with a smile. "The master cannot manage without you. If you let go, he won't even know how much to pay the servants next month." "Then he will have to learn." The smile faded from Hobbs's face. I unfastened the keys from my waist and laid them on the topmost ledger. "I've written down how much flour is left in the storeroom, which roof needs new tiles, and when to order the winter coal. It's all in the back." "Ma'am, are you saying...?" "I'm tired. I need a rest." Footsteps sounded outside. Hobbs quickly covered the keys with the ledger. Arthur came through the door with a paper twist of sweets. He saw the leftover soup on the table and frowned. "You've barely eaten again." "The kitchen put onion in it." "I forgot to remind them." He took an empty dish and tipped the sweets onto it. They were lemon drops from the confectioner's near the Harrow house, Lydia's favorite. I found them too sharp. Arthur tried one and winced, reaching at once for my tea. "Lydia says this shop makes them well. I picked up a bag for you on the way." I pushed the teacup toward him. "Keep them for yourself." "Still angry?" Arthur glanced at Hobbs, who took the hint and left with the ledgers. Once the door was shut, Arthur lowered his voice. "I know it was wrong to leave you behind at the Harrow house, but Lydia cried the whole way. I could hardly put her out of the carriage." "You could have sent the carriage back." "She refused to ride alone." "The Grants have other carriages." He had no answer. He rolled the lemon drop between his fingers and, after a pause, said, "Everything was in such confusion. It didn't occur to me." Arthur always wore that helpless look, turning a hurtful choice into an honest oversight. In the past I would have finished the sentence for him: it doesn't matter, it's over now, just remember next time. Today I simply waited. The room was quiet for a long time before he finally tossed the sweet back onto the dish. "The Harrow family was humiliated enough last night. Why must you keep harping on every little thing?" "Which of those was a little thing?" Arthur looked up. I did not wait for his answer. "Lydia wanted the old house; I gave it to her. My name on the family announcement has been struck out. If there is anything else you need from me, say it all now." "She would like to invite several painters to view the old house. Your mother is afraid you will change your mind, so she asked me to have you go in person." "When?" "The day after tomorrow." The day after tomorrow was the very day the municipal works committee would seal the house. I looked down at the vermicelli softening in the bowl. "I won't go." "If you aren't there, Lydia will read too much into it." "Let her." Arthur seemed taken aback. He stood, paced two steps, and stopped beside the table. "Eleanor, you were never like this. You know Lydia had a miserable start in life. You never used to hold things against her." Chapter 3 I went into the inner room, locked the trunks I had packed the night before, and ignored him. Arthur stood silent for a moment, then spoke through the curtain. "I will come for you the day after tomorrow. If you don't want to go inside, you can wait in the carriage." The door closed softly behind him. When I came back out, the bag of lemon drops was still on the table. A small sticky ring marked the paper where the sugar had softened in the damp. That afternoon, Lydia brought a jewelry case. She sat at my dressing table, opened the lid herself, and placed on top the gold hair comb she had taken from my hair at the dinner. "Mother says you forgot to take this last night. She asked me to bring it back." That hair comb had been made for the dinner to mark my identity. When Mother fastened it in my hair, she had said that a Harrow daughter must not be looked down upon. Less than half an hour later, she pulled the comb out in front of the guests and pressed it into Lydia's hair. The teeth caught and snapped several strands of mine. Now Mother had sent Lydia to return it, as though giving back something she had merely borrowed. "Take it back." The smile left Lydia's face. "Do you not want it because I've worn it?" "It is not mine. I don't want it." "Mother gave it to you." "At the dinner, she gave it to you." Lydia closed the case but did not leave. Outside the window, men were carrying my trunks toward the south storeroom. She watched for a while, then turned to me. "Are you blaming me?" "What answer do you want to hear?" "I only want to know why, when you've already given me the old house, you still have to act like this." She twisted the handkerchief in her hands. "I grew up in the Harrow house. Father and Mother love me. Charles loves me. Is all of that my fault?" "No." She blinked. I went on tucking the comb on the table into a cloth pouch. "Whom they choose to love is their affair." "Then why can't you be the way you were before?" Lydia rose and followed me, her voice rising with urgency. "You never fought for anything. In seven years, you never once fought." Her frankness stopped me in my tracks. So my yielding had never looked like forbearance to her. It was simply a rule she had grown used to: I was meant to live in the north wing, to be absent from society gatherings, to admit, whenever her tears fell, that I was not fit to be called a daughter of the Harrow house. "Lydia, you already have everything you wanted." "But if you leave like this, everyone will think I drove you out." "I never said I was leaving." Her expression shifted. Only after the words were out did I realize she knew nothing of the deed of separation. Arthur had not told her. At that moment, his voice came from outside the door. "What are you two talking about?" Lydia turned. Her eyes were already red. "She won't accept the jewelry Mother sent back." Arthur came in, glanced at me, then opened the case. "Since it was sent, you might as well keep it." "You keep it for me." "What would I do with women's jewelry?" "Give it to whomever you like." Arthur set the case back on the dressing table, impatience creeping into his voice. "Your mother has already made a concession. You ought to know when to stop." Lydia said softly, "Arthur, please don't quarrel with her on my account." "This has nothing to do with you." Every time he said those words, he was shouldering all the blame in her place. I took out a slim booklet and held it out to Arthur. "This explains what every key in the house is for and whom to call if one is lost. I have written it all down." Arthur opened it, turned two pages, and shut it again. "Why are you showing me this?" "Hobbs is getting on in years. He may not remember everything." "But you'll still be here, won't you?" I looked at him. He looked back, his gaze as steady and certain as ever. In Arthur's mind, the deed of separation was no different from a bowl I might happen to break. I would be upset, I would lose my temper, but by morning I would sweep up every shard. Lydia picked up the booklet and leafed through it idly. "You've been so thorough. You've even written down what tea Arthur drinks at night." "That page can be torn out." Arthur's brow darkened. He reached over and took the booklet from Lydia's hand. "Enough. Go with her to the old house the day after tomorrow, and then this matter is finished. No one is to bring it up again." Lydia finally relaxed. I neither agreed nor objected. After they left, I took a steamship ticket from the hidden compartment of my dressing table. The mail packet departed from Watergate Wharf on the Thames. Once it left London, it would follow the southern coast westward, with one change of vessel, and after a little more than ten days arrive at the town of Lyme. My grandmother had lived there for several years. In her old letters she wrote that houses in the town were not dear, that there was a long street by the sea, and in spring one could hear the flower sellers calling their wares. With the money from the sale of the old house, I had rented a small cottage, the lease beginning on the first of next month. My grandmother had reserved the old house to my separate use in the marriage settlement; neither its sale nor the use of its proceeds was under my husband's control. The solicitor in Lyme also handled judicial separations for married women. After six months of living apart, even if the husband refused to sign, a wife could apply to the Matrimonial Court for independent living and protection of her property, provided she had the testimony of a parish clergyman, a doctor, or neighbors. The date on the ticket was the day after tomorrow. I handed the jewelry case to a maid and asked her to return it to the Harrow house. The gold hair comb knocked softly against the lining. That was the last time the Harrow family ever sent me anything. Chapter 4 The crewman was calling me to board when I was still untangling the lantern tassel caught around my luggage strap. Arthur had won that tassel at a winter fair in our second year of marriage. He missed seven shots and in the end paid the stallholder outright for the prize, yet insisted he had won it. When we got home, I tied it to the porch lantern. Whenever he was out late, I would have it lit. In time the night watchman learned without being told: if Arthur had not come home, the porch lantern was not to be put out. This morning, before I left, I untied the tassel. Hobbs followed me to the carriage and asked whether the porch lantern should still be left burning tonight. I said no. He assumed I was only going out to the country for fresh air and urged me to come home soon. I gave no explanation. Now the tassel had snagged on the buckle, and after several tries I still could not work it free. The passengers behind me had formed a long queue. A woman with a child in her arms grew impatient. "If you're not boarding, miss, let the rest of us through." I stepped aside and cut the cord with a small pair of scissors. The tassel dropped onto the wet stone steps. The tide crept up and swept it under the pier. The crewman checked my ticket and travel papers, then took my luggage. "Lyme, is it?" "Yes." "You'll have to change vessels on the way. More than ten days." "I know." I stepped onto the gangway without looking back. Third class was smaller than I had imagined: six passengers to a cabin, each berth barely wide enough to lie on one's side. The woman across from me complained that my trunk was in the way and motioned for me to push it farther in. I shoved it under the bed and cracked my knee on the wooden frame. The pain kept me doubled over for some time. No one asked where I had come from. No one knew whose daughter I had been or whose wife. The woman unwrapped a sweet biscuit for her child, scattering crumbs everywhere. The old woman by the porthole noticed me rubbing my knee and passed over a small bottle of liniment, then asked whether I was traveling alone to stay with family. "Just going to stay for a while," I said. "Relatives won't put you up forever. Better to have a place of your own." I thought of the little cottage in Lyme, which I had seen only in the lease drawings. There was no north wing set aside for an unwanted daughter, no bedroom that could be handed over to a guest at a moment's notice. My landlady, Martha Mercer, had written in her reply that there was a crabapple tree behind the house. It attracted insects when it bloomed; if I did not care for it, she could trim it back beforehand. I wrote back and asked her to leave it. That was the first time in my life I had been able to decide the fate of a tree. Hoofbeats sounded from the shore just as the crew was casting off. I looked out through the cabin window, but it was not Arthur. It was a young footman from the Grant household. He ran up drenched in sweat, scanning the dock, and finally stopped in front of a cargo boat to ask the bargeman whether several crates of paints sent from the Harrow house to the old property had arrived. Arthur did not know I was here. After the footman left, the dock postman called my name through the crowd. He handed me a note on Grant stationery; it had been delivered first to the inn at Watergate Wharf, then forwarded by the innkeeper. A few lines in Arthur's hand. He wrote that Lydia had invited two painters on short notice and there would be more people at the viewing, so would I please tell the kitchen to prepare luncheon. He added that he would be home before dinner and that I should stop being difficult and remember to leave the porch lantern burning. The hull rocked gently, and the riverbank began to slide away. The figures on the dock shrank; the bridge arches disappeared behind the wake. I folded the note and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. After the steamer passed Greenwich, the old woman pushed open the porthole and said London was out of sight. No one lit the porch lantern at the Grant house, and no one gave orders to the kitchen. That note would never be answered. That night at the Grant residence, Arthur stood beneath the darkened porch lantern and knocked twice on the window. No one answered. He assumed I was still sulking. He pushed the door open and found that the dressing table, which had stood against the wall, was half bare. "Where is my wife?" The maid answered in surprise. "You didn't know? She left the city at dawn, sir."