Jack was a shy fellow, small and wiry, who never said much to anyone, not even to Mr Baxter, for I often heard him bemoan the fact. ‘Jack chats away to the horses all day long, but all I get from him are grunts,’ he would rumble. Mrs Baxter would soothe him and say it did not matter, for Jack was hired for his gentleness with beasts, not for his conversational skills.

Jack looked uneasy at the prospect of a quiet word with me. He rested his weight on his sweeping brush, seeming not to know which hand to hold it in.

‘I need you to keep a secret,’ I said. The stables were bustling. A cart was being loaded up for the road.

Jack nodded, looking even more uneasy.

‘The coach driver, the one who brought me here,’ I went on. ‘How often does he come here, would you say?’

Jack sucked his teeth and passed his sweeping brush from one hand to the other a few more times.

‘I would say he comes here once every few weeks or so,’ he finally declared.

‘And have you seen him recently?’ I asked. ‘For I haven’t, but I might have missed him.’

‘He’s not been back awhile,’ said Jack. ‘Are you looking for him?’

‘I am indeed,’ I replied. ‘Only to have a word. So when he does next come back, can you be sure and find me and let me know?’

Jack nodded.

‘And is he a regular, would you say? Are you certain he will call again in the next few weeks?’

‘Come to think of it, I would,’ said Jack. ‘He always likes to have a full coach, whether it be passengers or mail or parcels, so he might be holding off to make his journey worth the while, but he has passed through here for many years now, as long as I’ve worked here.’

I thought Jack chatted very well indeed, and wondered if mibbie Mr Baxter just did not know what to ask him to get a decent bit of conversation out of him.

‘Thank you, Jack. Now this is our secret, do you understand?’

He nodded again, firmly this time. ‘Well, if that will be all, Mistress Dickson, I have a lot of hay to sweep this morning and horses to feed,’ he replied.

That was all. I was back to the scullery before anyone could miss me, to launder bed sheets, a job that would make my arms ache, but never mind. That coach driver had said he would still take me to London. I would hold him to his word.

I was pegging the bed sheets onto the washing line and they were looking as clean as I could really get them, these being the sheets of a travellers’ inn where dirty feet and unwashed bodies leave unfortunate grime, when Mrs Baxter came to find me and send me out on yet another errand.