Water soaked her through in five minutes. 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. She owed the nun a great deal, including her command of English, for no one else thought to ensure she could speak her mother tongue. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me. She had never been there before at that hour, in that light, and it seemed to her as if she came to it all for the first time.
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