The coachman is hunched in a gabardine. “Go knock,” he tells me.
I look past him to the house. It looms, square and stone-faced, above me. Its small windows show no light, except a small leaded pane high above the great, dark front door.
Shrinking from the stinging rain, I climb the stone steps and reach for the wrought iron knocker but, before my fingers touch the dripping iron, the door moves, opening a crack and an anxious face, lit by a flickering candle, peers out.
“Miss Lamb?” The voice is filled with hope.
“Thank God you’re here.”