In Chelmsford, where they had changed horses at a coaching inn while the passengers ate, that promise had become a reality. But despite a sudden flurry of windblown snow that had nearly obscured the square tower of the parish church as the passengers clambered back onto the stage, the cheery red-nosed driver had bellowed out, “We'll be in London on schedule, good sirs and ladies.” “I should hope so,” muttered one elderly lady in an aggrieved voice. “I’m black and blue already!” And indeed she had reason to groan. Devoid of springs, the stagecoach careened down that ancient roadway built by the Romans some sixteen centuries before, lurching and jolting from side to side in a manner that caused the passengers to be thrown in a heap against each other and against the sides of the coach. As they approached London, the snow grew deeper, the road more treacherous, and the driver perforce had to slow his pace in the gray dusk as the horses’ hooves fought for purchase on treacherous deep ruts made slippery by hard ice.