For the past several hours, since leaving York, they had bumped and swayed over the rutted track that provided the main road to Aldeborough Priory. This stretch was never easy, but inclement spring weather had churned it into a disaster of mud, mire and puddle. The coach was as comfortable as she had come to expect—her husband inevitably travelled in style—but its hard springing and the rigid cushions made such lengthy journeys exhausting. This did not depress Frances in any way. She smoothed her fingers over the soft fur rug tucked round her knees against the sharp draughts and rested her head as comfortably as possible against the padded squabs. Within two hours they would be at Aldeborough. Her spirits were high, buoyed up by the prospect of varied scenery, compensating for her physical discomfort. And by the presence of Aldeborough. She had expected him to ride beside the coach as was his wont and as he had on their previous journey together to London. Instead he had opted to accompany her inside, his riding horse tied to the rear of the coach, while the rest of their luggage followed with Webster some distance behind at a more leisurely pace.
