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Drinkwater sighed. It was clear the widow was determined to extract every detail and he disliked such personal revelations. He answered evasively. ‘Hampshire, ma’am.’
    â€˜Ah, Hampshire, such a
fashionable
county.’
    As Mistress MacEwan rattled on he smiled and nodded, taking stock of the other passengers. To his left an uncomfortably large man in a snuff-coloured coat was dozing, or perhaps feigning to doze and thus avoid the widow’s quizzing; while to his right a soberly dressed divine struggled to read a slim volume of sermons in the fast fading light. Drinkwater suspected he, like the corpulent squire, affected his occupation to avoid the necessity of conversation.
    There was, however, no doubt about the condition of the sixth occupant of the swaying coach. He was sunk in a drunken stupor, snoring gracelessly and sliding further down in his seat.
    â€˜. . . And at the reception given by Lady Rochford, Catriona was fortunate enough to be presented to . . .’
    The widow MacEwan’s prattle was beginning to irritate him. The overwhelming power of her nonsense was apt to give the impression that all women were as ridiculously superficial. His thoughts turned to Elizabeth and their children and the brief note he had written to her explaining the swift necessity of his departure. Elizabeth would understand, but that did not help the welling sadness that filled his heart and he cursed the weakness acquired from a long convalescence at home.
    â€˜. . . And then the doctor advised the poor woman to apply poultices of green hemlock leaves to her breast and to consume as manymillipedes as her stomach could take in a day and the tumour was much reduced and the lady restored to health. Is that not a remarkable story, Captain? You are a married man, sir?’
    Drinkwater nodded wearily, aware that the clergyman next to him had let his book fall in his lap and his head droop forward.
    â€˜Of course, sir, I knew you were, you have the unmistakable stamp of a married man and a gallant officer. My husband always said . . .’
    Drinkwater did not attend to the late Mr MacEwan’s homespun wisdom. He had a sudden image of Richard standing naked after his fall in the Tilbrook while Susan Tregembo rubbed him dry.
    â€˜. . . But I assure you, Captain, it was not something to smile about. She died of smallpox within a month, leaving the child an orphan . . .’ Catriona’s knee was patted a second time.
    â€˜My apologies, ma’am, I was not smiling.’
    Drinkwater felt the coach slow down and a few minutes later it stopped to change horses at Hatfield. ‘Your indulgence ma’am, but forgive me.’ He rose and flung open the coach door, going in search of the house of office and, having returned, shouted up to Quilhampton.
    â€˜Mr Q, we will exchange for a stage or two.’
    â€˜Aye, aye, sir.’ Quilhampton descended. The new horses were already being put to and the Guard was consulting his stage-watch. ‘Half-a-minute, gentlemen.’
    â€˜Your boat cloak, Mr Q.’ Drinkwater took the heavy cloak and whirled it round his shoulders. He reached inside the coach for his hat.
    â€˜I beg your forgiveness ma’am, but I am a most unsociable companion. May I present Mr Quilhampton, an officer of proven courage now serving with me. Mr Q, Mrs MacEwan.’ He ignored Quilhampton’s open jaw and shoved him forward. ‘Have a care for the instruments.’
    â€˜Oh!’ he heard Mrs MacEwan say, ‘Honoured I’m sure, but Captain, the night air will affect you to no good purpose, sir and may bring on a distemper.’ The speech ended in a little squeal of horror and Drinkwater grinned as he hoisted himself up. Mrs MacEwan had discovered Mr Quilhampton’s wooden hand.
    â€˜All aboard!’ called the guard mounting the box and raising his horn. He jammed his tricorne down on his