A low moan brought Dorothea’s head around sharply to peer through the dim light at her sister, curled in the opposite corner of the carriage. Cecily’s eyes were shut but the line between her fair brows showed clearly that she was far from sleep. She moved her head restlessly on the squabs. The coach lurched into a rut as the horses’ hoofs skidded on the icy road. Dorothea caught the swinging strap to stop herself from being thrown. As the coach ponderously righted itself and resumed its steady progress she saw that Cecily had drawn herself up into a tight ball and wedged herself firmly into the corner, her face turned away.

Dorothea returned her attention to the dreary landscape, glimpsed fitfully through the bare branches of the trees and hedges lining the road. The grey February afternoon was closing in. The patter of drizzle on the coach windows punctuated the stillness within. Then, rising like a castle through the gathering gloom, standing on a crest surrounded by the dark shadows of its windbreaks, loomed the Three Feathers Inn. As it was just over halfway to London from the Grange, situated on the Bath Road, she had chosen it as their overnight stop. If it had been only herself travelling to London she would have made the journey in a single day. But Cecily was a poor traveller. With luck, their slow pace broken by a night’s rest would allow her to arrive in Cavendish Square in a fit state to greet their grandmother.

The only other occupant of the carriage was their middle-aged maid, Betsy, who had tended them from the cradle. She dozed lightly, enveloped in woollen shawls on the seat facing Dorothea. After much consideration, Aunt Agnes had been left behind. There had been nothing specific in Lady Merion’s letter summoning them to London, but the discussions at Darent Hall had clearly been on the unspoken understanding that Aunt Agnes would continue to do her duty and escort her charges to Cavendish Square. However, Aunt Agnes’s rheumatism was legendary, and Dorothea had no wish to saddle herself with the querulous, though much loved old lady, either on the road to London or once they were arrived, supposedly to enjoy themselves.