‘But—’ ‘Nothing at all for you to worry your head over,’ said the captain, moving to try and usher her forth. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. 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.
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