It looked like rain. Grey, damp, cold. The fires were lit. The maid brought in a fresh pot of tea. Catherine leant against the window, gazing down on the cobblestoned street, watching as pedestrians hurried to and fro. Lydia sat sewing quietly in a corner.
“I want to go back to Wansdyke,” Catherine said without turning around.
Lydia continued sewing.
“They will want me at Albrook any day now. I would rather not receive condolences here in Mansion Place.”
A fat raindrop spattered onto the glass. Umbrellas appeared. The flower seller ducked into an entrance.
“I would rather be riding.”
Still no answer. Still more raindrops splashed.
Catherine turned away. She glanced at Lydia. “Have you managed to procure anything black?” she asked listlessly.
Lydia looked up. “It is already packed.”
