By and by, some of the more refined folk retired to their rooms, including my fellow coach gents, and the songs got a little more raucous. One man stood up and tapped Mrs Rose on the shoulder and whispered something into her ear. She listened most intently, at first shaking her head, then after more whispering she nodded.

The man disappeared upstairs and Mrs Rose turned to me again, her voice thick and sweet with wine.

‘I shall retire now, but do not come to the room for another hour, if you don’t mind, and in return for keeping yourself out of my way, you may have another glass of my nice French wine,’ she told me. ‘In fact you might as well finish the bottle.’

I knew exactly what all this was about. She meant to entertain the man in our room. She had likely had a decent offer for an hour of her time. I did not like to be any party to this kind of caper. But what could I do? I was persuaded by the promise of the wine, and poured myself the rest and watched the clock. It was a fine evening all right, with singing filled with diddle-diddles and fair maids and petticoats, and bellowed guffaws erupting around the room. But when Mrs Rose’s man returned after almost an hour, I decided I’d had enough wine and wanted nothing more than to lie down and get a decent night’s sleep. I set down my glass and thanked the innkeeper’s wife, who was bustling around the place looking exhausted, and I made my way up the rickety stairs and past all the paintings of the fish and fowl.

Mrs Rose was wiping off her face-paint and seemed pleased enough with herself, humming a ditty as she went about her ablutions. Is it really that easy? Is this what becomes of women who travel alone? I stripped to my nightgown, feeling plain in her company, and got under the covers, brushing my hair and watching her as I let the blankets warm me up. She was pretty enough not to need any cosmetics, I thought, and she didn’t half admire herself, prancing around the room in her creamy corset and silky drawers. Her skin was the colour of sunshine and her shoulders were freckled. I felt frowzy, lying there in my musty nightie, for what was I but a wide-shouldered, stout thing good for hoicking creels and not much else besides.

‘How long have you been widowed?’ I asked her, wondering if this part of her story was even true.

‘Two years,’ she replied. ‘My husband was a sailor and he died in a sea storm.’

Well, that smarted, and my face fell and she noticed, pausing to see what I would say. Mibbie Mrs Rose would understand something of affairs of the heart.