She reached the landing and turned toward her room.
“Your hem is uneven on the left side,” Joseph said, from behind her.
She stopped walking.
“The stitching, I mean. It dips slightly in the back. Miss Fairweather said that an uneven hem is most improper.”
“Joseph,” Temperance said, without turning around, “are you quite finished?”
“I am only telling you.”
“I have had a long morning, and I am very fond of this dress, and if you say one more thing about the hem I will not be responsible for what comes next.”
She turned around at the exact moment that Joseph took one step forward, and his foot came down squarely on the back of her skirt.
There was a sound, that of the stitching giving way in a neat, irreversible line along the back seam, from the hem upward for approximately six inches.
They both looked down at the torn seam.
“That,” he said, after a moment, “was an accident.”
“I know it was an accident,” Temperance said, with enormous restraint.
“I didn’t mean to….”
“I know you didn’t mean to.”
“The floor is somewhat…”
“Joseph.” She took a breath. “Please simply say you are sorry.”
Something crossed his face and then his chin came up in a way that was so precisely like his father that she almost laughed despite everything.
Like father, like son.
“I was walking perfectly correctly,” he said. “If you had not turned around without warning…. then the incident would not have…”
“You stepped on my dress.”
“No, you turned into my path.”
Temperance stared at him.
“I could,” she said thoughtfully, “rip your jacket.”
“You wouldn’t,” Joseph’s eyes dropped to his jacket.
“It seems only equitable.”
“That is not equitable, that is…” He took a small step back. “Miss Hosmer.”
“Or,” she said, tilting her head, “I could dye all your clothes green. You seem like someone who would find green very difficult to manage.”
His eyes widened.
“I have access to the laundry, Joseph. I know Mrs. Potts quite well. One word from me and every shirt you own becomes green.”
“That is completely unreasonable.” He took another step back. His composure had cracked slightly at the edges, and beneath it was something she recognized, which was the look of a child who was trying very hard not to find something funny. “My father would not stand for it.”
