the milliner declared, “worn flat about a little yeoman’s hat. And roses are quite out—oh dear me, yes. I did see a sprig of laurel on a pleasant lilac bonnet in the Park last Saturday—St. James’s I mean, of course, where all the quality walk. But roses …” She gave a dismissive snort. “They just will not do this season.” Favian Adley squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could close his ears as well. Oh, the airless, cramped, freezing misery of a winter journey by public coach! The leather upholstery sweaty with the breath of penned human beings; the ceaseless struggle to find some way of bracing one’s weary frame against the constant lurch and sway. His purgatory had begun with his mother insisting on rising at five o’clock to accompany him to the Belle Sauvage, one of the busiest coaching inns in London. It was a mystery to Favian how his diminutive mama could attract the attention of so many as she orchestrated waiters, pot-boys and even ostlers to do her bidding.
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