Beyond the gateway the coach and four waited, if it could be reached. The matched pairs of blacks stamped against the iron hard mud of the rutted road, their breath steaming into the night, their eyes reflecting red from the torches in their holders on either side of a cadavourous shadow that was the coachman on his box.

From his perch on the back of the coach, the footman watched the progress of the women as she made her way towards the gate. He longed desperately to go to the iron bars and fling them wide, easing her way; but it was forbidden.