Free Season of Light by Katharine McMahon

the street, only a curtain of ice, the hailstones so large that a horse bowed its head to the ground and a mother shoved her little boy under a barrow for protection. People clutched each other as the lobby blazed white then was shaken by an extraordinary clap of thunder.
    Surely it must abate soon. But the storm went on and on until at last Asa ran up to Philippa’s room, thinking: I’ll see her first, reassure her, then I’ll deliver the note, whatever the weather. Philippa was sitting on the bed, eyes fixed on the window. ‘Oh, Asa. What shall we do if we can’t get away tomorrow?’
    ‘There’s no hurry,’ Asa replied. ‘A day or two won’t matter.’
    ‘It’s foolish, I know, but I feel as if I will not be fully well until I leave here. Stay with me and help with the last of my things. At least then I shall be ready, whatever happens.’
    Never had it been more difficult for Asa to be patient with Philippa, to fold and refold her clothes and then to unpack the entire trunk because a fringed shawl which would be needed on the journey had been placed at the bottom. Each time the thunder clattered above their heads Philippa patted her stomach, as if to comfort the unborn child. Finally, after the hail turned to torrential rain and then to drizzle, Asa said she must see to her own packing. Instead she ran downstairs and outside, where rainwater gushed over her feet, drenching her skirt. The air was cold and the streets almost empty except for a woman standing at her door in tears: ‘The pots in the courtyard. There is not a plant left standing.’
    At one point Asa had to run through to the rue de Sèvres, parallel to her usual route, to avoid the rivers of filth rushing along the cobbles. By the time she reached Paulin’s apartment she was exhausted and soaked through. His landlady, flustered by the damage done to her roof by the storm, was impatient and disapproving as she took Asa’s sodden note, saying she had no idea when Monsieur Paulin would be back. For an hour Asa walked up and down the street, marched round the Carrefour de la Croix Rouge under dripping trees, stared up at his window. He did not come. It was now nearly three in the afternoon, but still she paced to and fro, then at last went back to the Montmorency and hastily changed her clothes.
    Morton returned at five and said the storm had done irreparable damage. It was rumoured that the crops had been devastated, and the harvest in most of France would be ruined. ‘Well then, we cannot possibly leave tomorrow,’ said Asa. ‘The roads will be in chaos.’
    ‘On the contrary, I am all the more determined to make an early start. There may be riots, when people realise the damage that has been done. The country has no stores, and no money to import crops. In my view the king and his ministers have made a grave miscalculation. We shall leave in the morning.’
    Asa returned to her room, pushed up the window and leaned into the street. He must come. But still there was no sign of Didier, and she had to endure an interminable dinner during which the talk was of nothing but the storm and what might have been the cause – natural or otherwise – of such unseasonable weather. Afterwards Morton insisted that his wife have an early night in preparation for the morning, so Asa spent half an hour helping Philippa to undress. As her hair was brushed with long, hypnotic strokes, Philippa confided that she was a little homesick and could not help being grateful to the French for their unrest, which provided the perfect excuse for departure.
    ‘I feel that John will be more settled in his own home. And the thought of another hotel, even in Italy or Switzerland, of being confined to a room as I have been here, fills me with dread. I know you must be disappointed, Asa, at having to go back to Ardleigh, when you might have spent the summer abroad …’
    Asa squeezed her shoulder. ‘Your health is my first concern. There will be other opportunities. And I