Joseph could never have planned this alone. Where was he taking her? He lived in London. It made no sense: Joseph had no carriage. Unless… Panic struck. Joseph knew about the secret marriage. She had always suspected he did. Now, he was acting under direction. The man with the cold green eyes had a plan for Philomena. God only knew what would happen to her now.

She lay squashed in a corner of the carriage. With every bump and jolt, her body slammed into the wooden sides, but she would not cry out. She bit her lip. She must think. How could she outwit Joseph and escape? There must be a way.

Philomena’s mind raced ahead. The carriage must stop along the way to feed and water the horses or exchange for a fresh set. She would get a message to the innkeeper.

It was dark. Philomena lost track of the time. She spoke to Joseph, hoping for clues, but he replied only in monosyllables. “Joseph, surely there’s no need to keep me tied up,” she said, in a pale, wilting-female voice.

Joseph grunted. “Can’t trust you.”

“Even if I promise to be good? Couldn’t you just loosen the rope a little? Look, it’s hurting my arm.”

“Well,” Joseph weakened. “Maybe…”

Philomena’s heart leapt, but Joseph changed his mind. “I got my instructions. Don’t you try no tricks.”

“Instructions?” Philomena tried for more information. “Who’s giving you instructions, Joseph? I thought this was your plan.”

“Never you mind,” he growled. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Philomena shuddered. Her husband was behind this, she was certain. Who could he be? The shadowy figure in the church had worn a hooded cloak. She thought hard and remembered cold green eyes. The stranger’s fingers were long and pale, with white fingernails. A green emerald glinted as icy hands grasped Philomena’s wrist and forced a plain gold ring on her finger. She shuddered. The stranger, her husband, was the bogeyman of nightmares. How many times had she wakened, shivering, in the early hours of the morning, panting with fear, dreaming of those cold green eyes?

For hours it seemed, the carriage thundered through the dark before drawing up at last at a turnpike. Philomena struggled to sit, bracing herself on her elbows, determined to scream and shout at the top of her lungs as soon as anyone approached.

“Don’t you make a sound, now,” Joseph hissed. “I’ve got a musket here, and I’ll use it if I have to.”

To Philomena’s horror, he pulled out an old-fashioned pistol from under the seat and pointed it, waveringly, at her. “It’s all right,” she gasped. “I won’t make a noise. Just don’t point that thing at me. Your master will be angry if I arrive with my head blown off.”