It was afternoon, they were nearing Rothwick’s estate, and the coach did not seem at all as if it were going to break. She was not sure how a vehicle should feel when it was about to collapse, but she thought it should be less comfortable than this. It was all Rothwick’s fault, she thought, twisting her new lace handkerchief about in her hands. “He and his interest in new innovations—I am sure he is behind this stupid—what is it called?—macadamed road! Why, it has been almost entirely smooth since our last stop,” she grumbled under her breath. As she gazed out the carriage window, she turned over her problem in her mind. Perhaps she should have had the axle sawn halfway through instead of only one-quarter of the way through. But the wheelwright had been such a bore when he’d demanded almost all of her pin money to do it, and she’d felt just a trifle uneasy when his arguments had begun to draw attention from outside his shop. Then again, she did not want the coach to break down too soon; how awkward it would be to walk a great distance!
