She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. ” “And you?” “Rather!” “I wonder why?” “There’s no why. ” “I’ll frame it—when I get it. So long as she stood beside him, he was safe.
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